Pint-Sized
by DeejayMil
Summary: Spencer remembers being very small, and his mother reading to him. His favourites were the snippets. Snack-sized, bite-sized; glimpses at a bigger picture. He's grown now, and not so small, but he still remembers being read to. The Pint-Sized Prompts Challenge from /r/fanfiction is back and continuing with another batch of minuscule prompts to take us through mad March!
1. October 1st: Sardines

AN: The Pint-Sized Prompts Challenge from /r/fanfiction is pleased to present you with 31 bite-sized tales of anything goes BAU joviality! Feel free to bounce over and join in at anytime, the more the merrier!

A series of mini-prompts ranging from 100-400 words long! I'll be posting one daily for the entirity of October, so hopefully they turn out okay! I've never written such tiny things before! XD Enjoy!

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 **October 1** **st** **: Sardines**

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 _October 1st:_ _ **Get in here!**_ _-_ _ **400 words**_ _\- Jam as many characters as you can into a small space, everyone must say at least one thing._ _ **Spooktacular Bonus:**_ _Someone in the space is either dead previously or dies now._

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It was a game of 'whose limb is that anyway', and Reid was winning. Only because he was the boniest, and after the fourth time Rossi copped a sweater-glad elbow to the sternum, he was considering snapping it off.

"Sorry, sorry," Reid mumbled turning in the cramped space and knocking JJ's head back against the wall with a _clonk_.

"Watch it, pretty boy," Morgan warned from his corner where he was attempting—failing—to be as small as possible. "Damnit, I can't even _breathe_ in here."

Emily, who Rossi was now sure was actually part cat, snickered from her perch on the top shelf of the cupboard they were jammed into. The air smelt like pumpkin, —Reid, who apparently had shares in a pumpkin farm, judging by the amount he'd brought with him—the girls' mixed perfumes, some odd spice scent that Garcia refused to admit to, and the overpowering mix of two men wearing way too much cologne. One man wearing way too much cologne.

Rossi was wearing just the right amount, thank you very much.

"We need to be smart about this," JJ whispered, edging around to tuck herself back under one of Reid's gangly arms. "Shh, everyone, shh. Who here plays Tetris?"

They turned to Garcia as one. Cross-legged on a bunch of shoes, she beamed. "Righto, my lovely little bunch of spooks, let's do this!" she crowed, rubbing her hands together, and Rossi sighed.

"Whee!" whooped Henry, who apparently didn't quite understand the _point_ of hiding, as Rossi lifted him to Reid's shoulders, elbowing Morgan on the nose in the process. "This is _fun_."

"Yeah, it is," Emily agreed, reaching down to pull Jack up to the shelf and hooking a leg over to rest on Reid's shoulder. "Uh oh."

They froze. A creak outside.

"Daddy is so bad at sardines," Jack declared suddenly, and they all groaned as the door swung open to reveal Hotch with his eyebrow cocked. "… Oops. Hi, Daddy."

"You're not supposed to shout, Jack," Hotch scolded, then blinked. "Who put you up there?"

"Reid," Emily said promptly. Reid spluttered, Henry screamed as Jack kicked a scarf over his eyes, and JJ laughed helplessly at her kid's fright, like a good Mom would.

"Yep, it was Reid," Rossi added, beaming innocently. Hey, maybe the kid shouldn't have elbowed him so much. Revenge was a dish best served without elbows, after all.


	2. October 2nd: Sheepish

**October 2** **nd** **: Sheepish**

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 _October 2nd:_ _ **Who's who at the zoo**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Someone gets turned into an animal._

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Hotch sighed. Emily stood in front of his desk, looking sheepish.

"Let me get this straight," he said. "You're telling me a book—"

"We told him not to read it," Emily interjected. The animal squeaked, indignantly.

"—you read it anyway—"

" _Reid_ read it anyway." The bundle of fluff squeaked again.

"—and _this_ , happened…" Hotch paused. "Whatever this is."

"It's a lamb," Emily said, poking said lamb. Complete with a crookedly knotted tie.

"Baa," said the lamb, sadly.

Hotch sighed again. "Go get the book. And fill out an incident report!"

He should have stayed a lawyer.


	3. October 3rd: Velvet

**October 3** **rd** **: Velvet**

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 _October 3rd:_ _ **Dramatic food moment**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Your Choice of 4 Images! Pick one, the fandom is still whatever you like!_

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He arrived early and scanned the grounds for the perfect illusion of privacy. Found a bench coated in leaves and slick with the rain, sliding onto it with the box heavy in his hands. The wind whistled bitterly.

 _Hi, hello,_ he imagined her saying, opening the box and looking in. _Oh, red velvet cake. My favourite. How did you know?_

 _I'm a profiler,_ he rehearsed, and heard her laugh. _It's my job._

 _Catching criminals, one sweet tooth at a time._

He didn't say that though. Instead, he closed his eyes and murmured, _"Happy birthday, Maeve."_

The wind whispered with him.


	4. October 4th: Beginning

**October 4** **th** **: Beginning**

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 _October 4th:_ _ **You talkin' to me?**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- Mistaken identity. This is either the best_ _or worst thing to ever happen to your character._

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The coffeemaker was broken, his only clean tie was a teal one Hotch had once hinted had an 'aging' effect on him, and he was horrendously late to his guest lecture.

Overall, it was a terrible, no damn good day; one of those days that Rossi always said needed 'a hard drink and a kick in the teeth.' Paraphrased. Rossi's was a lot more… cussing.

 _There'll be someone waiting to show you to the office we have set up for you_ stated the email he'd been sent by the faculty.

Of course, there wasn't. At least, not at first glance.

Movement caught his eye. The kid couldn't have been more than sixteen, nose buried in a copy of _Psychology Today._ Surely, his guide. Why else would a kid that size be here?

"Jason Gideon," Gideon introduced himself, and the kid jumped a foot. "You're here to meet me?"

The kid went to shake his head, glanced down at the journal, and then lifted his gaze, expression oddly star-struck. Gideon studied him. Profiled him.

Reticent. Isolated. A student, somehow.

And, most notably, about to lie.

"Sure," said the boy, standing. "Spencer Reid. I'm a big fan of your work, Agent Gideon."


	5. October 5th: Illogical

**October 5** **th** **: Illogical**

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 _October 5th:_ _ **Chores**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Sometimes mundane, everyday tasks can be fun!_

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"Seriously, hurry up! What are you even doing in there?"

Reid winced, glancing at his hands. How was _this_ difficult? _Drape over hands. Top two corners inside out, elastic facing… or the other way? Or… that way…_

"Ten seconds and I'm coming in, ready or not."

 _…_ _Right way in?_

Emily clattered in, squinting through her fingers, and saw what he was sheepishly holding.

"Really, Spence, the _laundry_?" she spluttered. "Is that a fitted sheet?"

"I wanted to fold it before we left…" he explained woefully. "But it's… _illogical_."

She held out her hand. "Give me a corner, genius. I'll help."


	6. October 6th: Cheer-Routine

**Chapter Six: The Resurgence**

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Sometimes she hears noises in the night time, and things are different now. Not like they used to be. So the noises are different.

It used to be that when Elliott was scared, when there was noises whispering or haunting or sneaking about, Mama would frown at the noises and laugh until they went away. If Mama didn't, she'd smile, that secret kind of smile that she only ever gave Daddy and Daddy would explain _why_ the noises weren't really noises at all, but pipes or foundations or the neighbours being 'bothers'.

But things are different now. Things change, she's learned this, and Mama's gone away. Put in the box and buried deep, and Elliott's done all kinds of reading to try and understand this and she knows the one thing that isn't gonna change is that Mama's not coming back.

So the noises are noises again—maybe the scary kind—and she does nothing but listen because noises can take Mamas away, and maybe, just maybe, they can take Daddies too.

"See what it is, you might feel better," Elliott says out loud, just to hear the words. Carly taught her lots of songs like this, to help when she's feeling too much. Which is a lot. There are a lot of feelings and not enough Elliott to think about them all, sometimes. But it's hard to explain like that. "See… what it is…"

Mama would be brave. Mama would get a flashlight and sneak around until the noises went away. So, because Mama is gone and Daddy is sad, Elliott has to be brave. And see what it is.

She sits up, quickly, because if she does it fast there's no time to be scared. Everything is dark. Her room doesn't even look like her room in the dark… it's full of strange shapes that could be an arm or a hand or a something reaching towards her and—

She sucks in a deep breath and sinks down into the blankets again. She's gonna cry. She doesn't want to. She wants Daddy. Doesn't want to call him near the noise. Wants Mama. Knows things are different, so she can't have her.

"Once you see what's there," she mumbles into her blankets. It's scary scary and she wants her Daddy and there's a _bang_ and a noise down the hall that's _not_ her imagination, it's not, and so she screams and _jumps_ from her bed to the door and runs down the hall to the where there's light and her Daddy and—

He's not in the living room. He's _always_ in the living room. She stops and stares at the empty couch.

The noise got him.

The noise took him away. Just like Mama.

And it's gonna come for her next.

She screams. Again and she doesn't stop because someone will come, before the noise, someone has to and she screams and screams and screams until she can't breathe and—

Hands grab her. "No!" she shrieks, turning around and hitting those hands, the shape, kicking, howling, she's crying, and they don't let go, they don't, she can't breathe—

"Shh, Ellie, love, shh." It's Daddy and he pulls her close, holds her hands, hugs her tight and she's sobbing now, like a real baby, like those babies at school. "Oh, love, it's okay. You're okay. I'm here."

She's gulping and hiccupping and might be sick, and he's hugging her too tight. The words are hard but she manages them; "Hugging too tight, Daddy," she says, and tries to wiggle away. He clings tighter. He's _heavy_. She pushes him.

"Sorry," he mumbles, and his knees _clonk_ on the floor. He's just sitting there. On the floor, looking down. Looking tired, like he should go to bed but doesn't want to. "Nightmare?"

She studies him some more. His words sound strange. Not… like Daddy. "Are you sick?" she asks. "Does your head hurt?" Sometimes her head hurts and her voice sounds like that, and then she pukes and it feels better. She hopes he's not gonna puke.

"No, I'm fine," he says, but he says it like 'mm'fun' and she gets told off when she mumbles like that. 'Enunciate, Elliot' Daddy tells her, but she doesn't think she should say that now. "Come on, back to bed." And this is the bit where he takes her to bed, tucks her in, kisses her. Just like he used to, before he put Mama in the box.

"We go to my room now," she reminds him, because he's still just sitting there, and he swallows so hard she hears it. "Daddy, you're sick." She crouches next to him, shuffling close, and presses her hand to his head, just like Mama does when she doesn't feel well. He leans against it. His eyes close. Is he going to sleep on the floor?

"Fuck," he says, and he doesn't mumble _that_ at all. Um mah.

"You have to justify your cuss," she says, because that's what he says to her, but he doesn't and now she's scared again but for a different reason. Can being sick take Daddies away the same as noises take Mamas?

He takes her hand and stands. It takes him two goes, and she giggles once because he looks funny falling over, but… it's not funny, really. He's not got a shirt on, just his jammy pants, but he looks all sweaty. "Come on," he says, in that funny voice, and holds her hand too tight. It hurts but he doesn't listen when she tugs it away. "I… come on." They're walking the wrong way. Her bedroom is the other way. They're walking to _his_ bedroom. His TV is on and Mama is on it. Not moving, just there, stopped. Elliott whimpers, digging her heels in, but he lifts her onto the bed and almost falls on her. "I'm sorry," he says again, and kisses her. Presses his cheek against hers and his face is wet and gross. "Sorry, baby, sorry, sorry, so goddamn sorry."

"Why?" she whispers, and he's not answering. Just reaching for his phone. "Who are you ringing? It's dark." Phones only ring after dark if Mama, or very sometimes Daddy, have to go away. _They're_ never the ones calling people to go away. "Are you gonna go someplace?"

He looks at her weird again, holding the phone to his ear. His hands are shaky. "JJ," he says into the phone, suddenly, and now _he's_ crying again and why why why, Elliott _hates_ when things don't make sense and _none_ of this makes sense and she doesn't know _why_. "I… help. Please help. I fucked up."

 **.**

* * *

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Things get better. There's a night that's terrible, so terrible that Reid can't think about it without having to stop to catch his breath, and then things… get better. Slowly. Slowly slowly, but they _do_ get incrementally better.

And, contrary to his belief, there's not a single person who looks at the shambles he's made of this all and walks away. Despite the fact they should. Despite the fact that _he_ would, and he's beginning to suspect that he's harder on himself than anyone else is.

"How is she?" asks Hotch one Sunday as Reid helps peel potatoes. This happened, somehow. Reid isn't sure when or how, but in the hazy time period between those seven fatal words and now, Sunday dinners at Hotch's with Elliott and Jack shrieking together in the other room became a regular thing.

Reid looks at his daughter through the shiny-bright glass of Hotch's back door, watching her chase Jack in endless, sporadic circles, both their arms up and clearly deep in some complex game that the likes of their fathers could never hope to fully comprehend.

"She's obsessed with death," he says, because always start with the most interesting lead in and this new obsession, while possibly something he _should_ be disconcerted by, is really quite a fascinating insight into his daughter's strange little world. "I took her to the zoo with JJ and Henry and all she wanted to do was watch the carnivores being fed. She can also list in startling detail all the stages a body goes through when decomposing." He doesn't mention the dead bird she'd brought home from school, or the fact that instead of crying when her fish had died, she'd merely sat quietly in front of the tank and examined it studiously.

He also doesn't mention the fact that, upon finding her examining the dead fish, he'd simply joined her. It seemed like some kind of bonding experience, as odd as it had been. And the anomalous amount of information he's gathered over the years on marine life _had_ to come in handy eventually.

Hotch's eyebrows lift. "That's normal though?" he asks, hands pausing on the pasta. "After a loss?"

Reid shrugs. The peeler slips, skimming his finger, and he hisses, accepting the paper towel Hotch flicks him to daub at the thin scrape. "We're making a scrapbook," he adds, because this is far less interesting than his daughter's desire to learn everything about a particular subject, no matter how macabre. "Her therapist suggested it. Says it will help us… both."

Hotch smiles, but he aims the smile at the pasta, and it's a sad, muted kind of expression. "That's good," he murmurs, tilting his jaw away. "Emily would…" He trails off. The room seems suddenly empty and cold, except for the two lonely men hovering over a pile of bloodied potato peels.

"I know," Reid says, and sucks on the sore finger. "I know, Aaron."

 **.**

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Daddy's gone to sleep when there's a knock on the door. "Daddy," Elliott says, and shakes his shoulder. " _Daddy_."

But he just keeps sleeping.

His phone rings, loud and makes her jump. Daddy's being sleepy, so she answers it like he does; "Reid."

There's a startled laugh from the other end. "Ellie, sweetie, can I talk to your dad?" It's Auntie JJ.

Elliott chews on her lip. "Um, no."

"Oh, okay. Can you tell him to open the door for me, please?"

She shakes Daddy again, just in case, but his head just flops a little and his eyes stay shut. He's gonna be in trouble. "I can tell him," she says slowly, because she doesn't really want him to be in trouble.

Quiet for a moment, and the phone rattles like Auntie JJ just blew a big breath against it. "Okay, hon, I need you to come open the door, can you do that? You might need to get a chair, but I _need_ you to open it."

She does, not being scared this time because all the lights are on now and Auntie JJ is just outside. Just like Mama showed her how, in case there was a fire; first the big bolt and then the latch, and the chain is last.

"Hi," Elliot says when the door opens to let in her Aunt, and then bursts into tears. She doesn't really know why she's crying or sad just that she _is_ and she wants it to _stop_.

Arms wrap around her, picking her up and cuddling her close. Auntie JJ doesn't hug too tight like Daddy and she doesn't smell like she needs a bath either. She smells clean, like shampoo, and a little like Mama so Elliott hugs back.

"Where's your daddy?" Auntie JJ asks her, and Elliott turns her head a little, wiping her nose and her eyes, and says, "In bed, sleeping. He's sick."

"Yes, he is," says Auntie JJ, real serious, and puts her down on the couch. "Stay here, okay? Here, have a blanket and just snuggle down, okay?"

Elliott stays, because Auntie JJ asked her too, but she can still hear the talking. They're not shouting, like Elliott does when she fights with Michael at school, but they _are_ fighting, she can tell. The words are angry.

So, she sneaks closer, the blanket wrapped around her. She can't hear Daddy's voice, but Auntie JJ's she can hear just fine.

"How _could_ you? With your daughter in the house? Do you have more? Don't… don't _look_ at me like that. Just tell me where you keep it. Of course I don't believe you— _look_ at you. What am I supposed to do now, Spence? How do I fix this?"

She's crying, Elliott realizes, and presses her hands to her tummy because it _hurts_ to hear Auntie JJ cry. Daddy's crying too. They're both crying, so Elliott slides in through the door and peeks. Auntie JJ is staring at the TV, at the stop-picture of Mama in her pretty dress, and Daddy is sitting on the end of the bed with his head in his hands.

"Daddy, can I have a hug?" she asks, and they both jump and look at her.

"Of course, love," he says, holding a hand out, so she runs fast and leaps into his lap, too hard, and he makes a rough kind of _ow_ noise. "Always. You just have to ask."

"I don't know what comes next," Auntie JJ says, leaning down and hugging them too. "I just don't know."

"Neither do I," mumbles Daddy, and closes his eyes again.

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* * *

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Her birthday is a bright spring day, and also, a turning point.

They're at the park as she solemnly explains that _bread isn't good for ducks because of their dictative systems—that's 'digestive systems', Ellie—that's what I said,_ and he has the brand new scrapbook spread open across his knees, half-heartedly sketching what almost looks like a duck in the margins. She has a glue stick in one hand and a handful of grass in the other, and a focused enough expression on her face that Reid just knows no matter how terrible his duck sketch is, it's not going to matter because it'll all be grass in the end.

"Where do ducks go when they die?" she asks, pausing with the glue at a curious angle to her face. It takes two glances for him to work out exactly where she's considering sticking it. "What does glue taste like?"

"They decompose using fungi, insects, and bacteria into much simpler matter in order to recycle finite physical matter," he answers offhand, eyeing the glue-stick carefully. "And probably an unearthly mix of acrylic polymer and sodium stearate. Don't eat the glue, El."

"But it's my birthday. And I want to know what everything ever tastes like."

It's not _really_ toxic, but he doesn't really want to set a precedent. "It'll make you tongue sticky."

She doesn't seem sure if that makes it more or less appealing, and he hopes scientific curiosity isn't genetic. But it does seem to lose some of its mystery. "Where do baby ducks go when they die?"

Uh oh. She's specifying.

"Same process," he murmurs, and uses his hand to try and rescue a bug from the gluggy trails of glue Elliott has left across the page. The bug wriggles twice and stops, forever a part of this memory now, and Reid winces at its fate.

"And Mama ducks? Do they decompose as well?"

He swallows once and almost chokes on it. "Yes."

"Hmm." She hums, decorating the end of the glue stick with flakes of dirt and grass, before saying very softly, "I'm gonna decompose one day. Will you put me in a box too?"

There's… no good way to answer this one. Accepting the gluey leaf she offers him and placing it carefully in the centre of the page, he says, "Do you want to be put in a box? There are other options."

It delves into a conversation that's probably far too detailed for Emily to approve of, but she's hardly here to disapprove anymore. The bright spring day becomes a brisk spring twilight, and he hands her the pen so she can sign _Elliott ER, 4 year Old today,_ underneath his careful, _Elliott would like a Tibetan Sky Burial and has also learned today that wanting to know what glue sticks taste like is not worth having a sticky tongue._

It's a good day, a normal day, and he almost forgets to be sad.

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* * *

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They're making her have a stayover at Auntie JJ's. _You can play with Henry_ , Auntie JJ says, smiling too much, and Elliott is nervous. Nervous because no one has said Daddy is coming, and Daddy is moving slowly and looks _really_ sick now, and if she goes away, who's gonna look after him?

"I don't have to go if I don't wanna, right?" Elliott asks Daddy as he packs her a bag with too much stuff for an overnight stay and all her favourite things, and Daddy just looks sad and adds her cat. She takes it out. He adds it back. He _can't_ add her cat, because he's putting all her favourite things in the bag and if she takes them all to Auntie JJ's, will this still be her room when she comes back? "Because I don't wanna."

"Want to," he corrects her, and puts in her favourite book. _Stop_. "Behave, Elliott."

"I am behaving," she says, and thinks maybe she should _stop_ behaving just so he sees how good she's being when she is. "You're the one not behaving." His eyebrow goes up and his mouth goes all straight and both of those don't happen lots and are signs that she should stop and go have quiet time somewhere else, but she charges on because this is… _mean_. "You're being awful. You wouldn't wake up and you rung Auntie JJ in the dark and you cry too much and I think you're _awful_." She adds on, "Mama wouldn't send me away. Mama _loves_ me," at the end, because it might make him smile and say, _silly, I'd never send you away._

"I do love you," he says instead, and he's holding one of her shirts and running his fingers over it like he's never noticed it before. "I love you more than you can conceptualize, Elliott. And you're being cruel right now."

"No, I'm not." Her eyes are burning again and she sniffs and can taste it. He makes a grumbly growl when she wipes her nose on her sleeve, so she rubs it on her pants.

"You are." Now his mouth is down, not straight, and she is sorry but not enough to say. "You're hurting me. Is that your intention? To be hurtful?"

Now she's red and burning and hot and looking at the ground, and he zips up her bag with an angry yank. "No."

"Are you going to apologise?"

 _No._ She shakes her head. Not while he's sending her away. This will make him miss her lots and bring her home. Maybe even today. Tomorrow, for sure.

"Do I get a hug?"

Another head shake. She wants to. Almost does. Shuffles her feet and thinks about it, but he's gotta _miss_ her. He won't miss her if she hugs him.

He sighs real deep. Stands and walks over to her, bending down and cupping her chin with his big hands, kissing her twice on the head. "Well, I love you," he says quietly. "And I'm going to be sad that I didn't get a hug, but I understand."

And then he walks out and leaves her with her bag, just standing there.

That's not really how she thought it would go.

There are more voices in the kitchen. Uncle Dave, she thinks, but… cranky sounding. She slinks out after them, letting her bag bump on the floor behind her.

"—I need to know what I'm in for, JJ, is this the kind of sleepover where we're going to talk about feelings, or is it the kind where I need to leave my gun at work and the medicine cabinet locked—"

" _Dave_ ," Auntie JJ hisses, and they're all looking at Elliott and Daddy as they come in the door.

"I'm not…" Daddy trails off, his eyes darting to Elliott. "That. I'm not that, Rossi. It's…"

"Yeah, well, you know the stats, Reid," Uncle David says, and he's not looking Elliott even though he always pays her attention and gives her sweets and she's uncomfortable and scared and shuffles behind Daddy without actually touching him. "Better than we do. Widowers are the highest risk category, especially under thirty-five. And no one is telling me _why_ you're coming over, so I'm making assumptions here."

Daddy says nothing. She thinks about holding his hand, but Auntie JJ is walking towards her and taking her bag and it's already time to go.

"Bye, Elliott," says Daddy.

Elliott doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to. She'll see him again soon, when he misses her and comes to get her.

She's sure of it.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

They're trudging home from pre-school on a rare day of Reid getting away early from work, and he's carrying her bag, his bag, and the scrapbook under one arm when she stops suddenly and almost yanks his shoulder out of its socket.

"What is it?" he says, instead of swearing at the jerk of pain, and peers at the ratty pile of rubbish she's spotted. It's warm, getting warmer, and she shuffles her feet on the sun-heated sidewalk.

"That box moved," she says finally, inching closer, and he grabs her arm quickly before she can throw herself boldly on top of a stray dog or rat or—

Kitten.

"Ah," he says, staring at the black ball of fur that looks up at them with rheumy eyes and peeps weakly, its gums as savagely white as its tiny fangs.

"Oh!" says Elliott, and turns to look at him too.

Shit.

There's a long silence as they look at each other. He waits for it. Waits a little longer.

"Do kittens decompose when they die?" she asks, and tilts her head to examine the kitten as it stumbles over with heaving sides.

Damnit.

All in all, it's probably not how Emily would have picked out a pet to replace the fish, but he's half hoping that having something _alive_ around the house might distract Elliott from thinking too much about what isn't.

And it works. Eventually.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

She waits patiently because Daddy always come back. He's not like Mama. He won't leave her.

He won't.

He _can't_.

But he does.

She waits patiently until it's night time and Auntie JJ has tucked her in into the spare bed that's way too big and way too scary, and then she waits some more. Because she's _miserable_ , and she knows Daddy must be too, so surely, _surely_ , he's on his way.

Auntie JJ's house makes different noises than Daddy's does. She misses the usual noises. She misses her bed. Her toys are pulled tight around her, all under the blanket with paws and tails tucked in so they don't get cold or lonely, but it's still not the same. The shadows are different, it smells different, the noises are different, and she _wants_ Daddy.

Maybe he's gone forever. She was too awful. Too mean. So he left to find someone else who'd hug him goodbye and not be _cruel_.

Maybe someone else is already living in their house. A new kid in her bath, playing with her toys, or sitting in the study in Daddy's office chair and reading the books that smell a little bit like him. Maybe there's a new Mama opening the drawer next to the bed where Mama's perfumes and thing she calls 'trinkets' are kept, the drawer that rattles nicely when Elliott slips it open and breathes it in to remember what Mama used to smell like when she'd hug her. A new Daddy too.

A new Daddy without his smiles or his big hands that do magic tricks and hold books and hug her tight and his way of telling stories that makes them sound wonderful and real where Mama only makes them sound like stories.

No more magic stories. No more tricks. No more hugs.

"Oh," Elliott says, and sinks down low in this strange new bed, and feels sick, like her chest is all tight and funny. She whispers his name and then she whispers it louder and both times he doesn't answer and he might never answer and that's when the sick gets sicker and she can't scream this time because there's too _much_. Instead, she tries and tries and just makes _ow_ noises like the time a girl at pre-school fell on a bar and her breathing went all funny.

She stumbles out of the bed, ignoring the strange new shadows, and finds the door, finds the hall, tries to remember which is Henry's room and which is Auntie JJ's and instead the sick gets heavier and she curls up instead, pressing her knees into her eyes and trying not to cry.

"Elliott?" says a deep voice and she cries out once because _Daddy_ , but it's not, it's not, it's Henry's Daddy and he's walking towards her and reaching for her and hugging her and it's not right, it's not _right_ and she finds her voice then.

"Daddy's gone," she says, and the words hurt so much she tucks her knees up more and Will has to crouch to stop her falling but it doesn't work because the floor doesn't feel right anymore; she's dizzy and sick and going to fall anyway, despite his hands that are _wrong_ holding her up. "Daddy's gone, he's gone, he's gone, _he's gone, likeMamagonegonegone!"_

She screams until she's sick, actual sick, all over Auntie JJ's floor and then she screams more because she can't remember how to stop and behave and she's sorry and miserable and sore and Auntie JJ's going to be so mad, and she doesn't stop sobbing even when the sobs aren't sounds anymore, just feelings, and Auntie JJ carries her to the car and says words that aren't words either.

She doesn't care where they're going because Daddy's gone and she doesn't want to see another box.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

The second page is movies. Movies he loves, movies Elliott loves, moves Emily loved. Elliott draws and he writes the captions and sometimes they swap. He finds clippings from when the movies aired and they stick them in too, right next to the wonky _I don't like the llama lady but I Like the llama_ Elliott had spent twenty minutes getting perfect.

The third page, after some thinking, is food. It's packets of sugar and stirring sticks from the cafes he takes her too. It's a napkin he drew silly faces on. It's, with a sick, cold jolt from his neck to his toes, a menu from a certain ice-creamery that takes him ten minutes just to step through the door and looks exactly the same as the last time he'd come here.

The next bundle of pages are books because if there's one thing they have in common, it's books. Books on birds, on science, on the body and the brain and places around the world and types of tea. Stories and tales and mysteries.

He makes sure they leave blank pages between, writing carefully at the top _My Mama_ , and showing her them. "These are for you to fill in," he says quietly, and leaves her to it and doesn't look.

 _My Friends_ is condemningly blank, but _Sergio_ fills up quickly, mostly with fur and half-chewed balls of foil unwrapped and glued with care.

 _My Daddy_ is heavy enough that he has to sturdy the page with duct tape to stop it tearing itself out.

There's a page she wrote herself, labelled _The Noises_ , and he looks at that for a while and the scribbled black on the white paper, and eventually gets to work. He cuts out tiny people made of coloured paper and hides them around the apartment, in all kinds of places. Gives her a flashlight and covers all the lights except for one that he keeps on, just in case, and tells her that they're _going to hunt all the noises away, just like this._

When they've found them all, they stick them in the book too. Noises conquered. Night time rendered safe once more. The paper figures cover the black scribbles and she starts to sleep through the night again.

She still won't let him brush her hair, so he takes her to the hairdressers and emerges with an Elliott with far less hair and a shell-shocked expression. So she doesn't feel left out, he gets his cut short too and buys them both new woolly hats for the winter.

She still doesn't like how he dresses her, so he gives JJ his bank card and his daughter and tells them both to deal with it.

The letters stop coming home.

He does better.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

"Come on," Auntie JJ says, and Elliott is too tired to do more than hiccup as warm arms tug around her neck, undoing her seatbelt and lifting her from her car seat. "Oh, sweetheart. You're all hot and flushed."

It's cold outside the car. Cold and Elliott just wants to curl up and not be Elliott anymore, so she pulls away from the hand that wipes at her sticky cheek and pulls hair away from her face. Cold, but she feels hot, and sick, and she can still smell vomit and yuck and her head aches.

Then she's being carried. Grass swishes below them. Wet grass. Dark grass. Elliott stares at it with her head on Auntie JJ's shoulder, and she hears a door bang open and more swishing, faster.

"Elliott," says a voice, a voice she knows, and _now_ she looks up.

"Daddy?" she says, or tries, and it _is_ her Daddy. Standing on the grass in his jammies and his dressing gown, and he's _there_. "Daddy!"

It's a second to leap from Auntie JJ's arms to his and a forever for his arms to close around and pull her against him. And he smells like him and he feels like him and his hands are right and _oh_. Hugging too tight again but it's okay, she's hugging tight too.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she's sobbing, and he's lifting her up and walking back towards the house, towards Uncle Dave standing in the doorway. "I'm never gonna be cruel again and you can't go away in the box because I don't want a new Daddy or Mama, I just want you, please please _please_."

They're in the house, in the bathroom, and he lets her perch on the bath and cling to his stomach as he wets a face cloth and wipes her cheeks, the right kind of cold and helping her hurting head.

"Did you bring her clothes?" he's asking Auntie JJ, "She needs a change. Oh, Elliott, love, it's okay, shh. Shh sh, it's okay—I'm never going to leave you, okay? I'll always come back. I'm sorry you were so scared, I'm so sorry, but I messed up, I made a terrible mistake, and I'm going to do so much better from now on."

She rubs her nose with her hand, and he doesn't even scold. Just wipes her hands with the cloth and eases her arms up to tug her yucky jammy top over her head, resting the cold cloth on her chest where it helps with the sick that's still there and hurting.

"It's not cos I was cruel?" she asks, biting at her lip and feeling her face go all twisty and awful. "It's not cos I made you sad?"

"Never. Oh god, never. You could never hurt me so much I'd leave you, I love you far, far too much."

Hiccupping and tasting burning in her mouth, she grabs his shoulders and pulls him down for another hug, digging her fingers into his shirt. "But Mama left," she says, confused, "and Mama loved me too." It doesn't make sense.

He's quiet and his throat moves funny against her shoulder. Her head hurts. She wants to sleep. There's a clean top in his hands and she wants that too, hates being smelly and gross. "Mama would have stayed forever if she had the choice," he says, finally, and his eyes are shut like the words hurt to say. "But she couldn't. So… I have to stay twice as long, just to make up for her, okay?"

That… makes sense. She can't have Mama, so she gets Daddy for longer. Forever even, she figures. Like not eating as much dinner so she can have twice as much ice cream.

"Okay," she agrees, and lets him go.

She sleeps curled up in his arms in a big strange bed without any of her toys, but it's okay.

She feels safe anyway.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

It's a grey, awful day, and he takes Elliott to her mama's grave.

He should have done it a long time ago. October is blowing in, bringing leaves changing colour and the cold air, and they're both bundled up in scarves and jackets with Emily's woolly hat pulled low over Elliott's pixie cut.

"Fid… ed-lit-ee," she reads out slowly, shaping the words in her mouth, crouching and reaching out to trace her fingers over the engraving. "Bravery. Integrity. Are those what Mama is?"

He says _yes_ despite her being so much more than three words on a headstone, despite her life being more than the line between two dates, but he can't verbalize any of this. The wind pushes around them greedily, snatching at leaves and unprotected hands and the edges of their clothes, and he wishes he'd seen her grave in the springtime. He loves fall, but hates the leaves on her grave, the last fading wildflowers wilting, the reminder that someone else has been tending to this plot of land with his heart resting within.

It's his first time here, and he should have come sooner.

"I fell in love with your mama on a day like this," he says suddenly, the words flinging themselves boldly from his mouth, and maybe this is something else he should have said sooner. Elliott looks at him oddly, flowers in her hands, and settles down on the grave with her knees digging into the wet loam. A new life on an extinguished one. Fucking poetry. He chokes the image down, and says, "A grey, windy, wet day."

"What were you doin'?" Elliott asks, smiling. It's a bright, eager smile, and he wonders if he can still smile like that or if the new lines on his face will stop him from trying. He's twenty-nine this month and he feels four times as old; the stubble he'd shaved from his face last week was tinged with grey and he knows the strain is aging him. Not even thirty and he stands by his wife's grave and considers growing old.

"Learning to fall," he answers, finally, and kneels next to her without any regard for his knees. He's not old yet.

He's not broken yet.

Nowhere near.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

There's a noise in the night time.

Sergio is asleep next to her, purring purring, and he jumps awake and stares at the noise. Stares at the door. She hums, tugging the blanket up to her chin and tumbling him between her knees with his claws scritchy scratching on the wool. Daddy left the flashlight next to her bed, on top of their big fat scrapbook with the flowers from Mama pressed underneath. She's brave now, so she picks it up, sings, "See what it is and you might feel better," and slips out of bed.

Checks under the bed with the flashlight jumping and her feet cold on the rug. "Boo," she says to the nothing under there. "Boo," she says again, checking in the closet. It creaks when she closes and she says, "Boo," again at the creaky hinge. Then, she turns to her bedroom door.

There's another noise. A footstep. Oh.

It's just Daddy. It's gotta be.

Smiling, she slips over to the door, waits for the footsteps to get closer to Daddy's room, and then jumps out, "Boo!"

He turns. He has a flashlight too, and it makes the thing in his other hand darker in the shadows it leaves. But she knows what it is anyway. Of course she does. Daddy and Mama both sat her down one day and showed her what it was and told her never to touch, not even to play, and that the dark scary end could go _bang_ and kill her.

"Daddy?" she whimpers, stepping back and almost tripping on Sergio.

The man laughs. Lifts a finger to his mouth. _Shh_ that finger says, and he raises the gun.

It's not Daddy. It's not Daddy at all.

He steps into her daddy's room and closes the door between them.

She screams.


	7. October 7th: Germs

**October 7** **th** **: Germs**

 **.**

 _October 7th:_ _ **Disgusting!**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- The villain wins by grossing out your hero._

 **.**

Three PhDs, and he still couldn't solve this.

Emily leaned closer. The vibrantly green wig she was wearing slipped slightly over her ears. "Touch it or lose."

The contents inside the bowl made a noise only describable as a threatening _gloop_. "What's in it?" he asked. After last Halloween, he couldn't lose another bet.

Emily grinned; a face-splittingly awful expression underneath the Joker make-up she'd expertly applied. " _Germs_ ," she promised, with emphasis.

Wrenching his hand away, he winced. "I forfeit."

Distantly, Morgan whooped, "Robin! Pretty-Boy-Wonder!"

 _Maybe she'll take pity…_

She cackled.

 _Maybe not…_

"Reid, you'll make a stunning Squirrel Girl."


	8. October 8th: Unbreakable

**October 8** **th** **: Unbreakable**

 **.**

 _October 8th:_ _ **Fog**_ _-_ _ **400 words**_ _\- Are you lost, or trying to lose someone?_ _ **Spooktacular bonus:**_ _Eyes everywhere._

 **.**

Sometimes, things went wrong.

Sometimes they lost. Somethings things didn't end neatly. Sometimes the cases they worked ended in broken families and broken hearts and bodies borne by six.

JJ wasn't lost. She knew exactly where she was.

Looking for something right.

The fog edged in. It muffled the world. It suffocated her; brought the forest closing in, stole all the sound, left her alone and isolated despite the line of searchers at her back. She swept her eyes across the bank of white along with them. Dozens of eyes, uncountable coils of mist, and one small life lost somewhere within.

JJ ignored the eyes and ignored Reid's voice at her back, jogging fearlessly into that empty void. Trees appeared without warning, stumbling over rocks she hadn't seen until her foot crashed against them, but she didn't pause.

 _"_ _Temp is dropping_ ," Spence murmured through her earpiece. _"Even if we work all night, we can still only cover a fraction of the search parameters. JJ?"_

JJ thought of Henry. "We don't stop."

Sound dropped away again. She blinked, coughed, shifted uncertainly on the balls of her feet and peered around. Finally, the radio crackled, _"Okay. We don't stop."_

Spence would follow her to the ends of the earth if she asked it of him, and she sorely hoped she wasn't betraying his trust by doing so.

Something howled. She froze, then smiled. "Coyote," she reassured Spence, and received a sharp hiss back. The fog billowed, shifted, and he appeared from it, flashlight in hand. Around him, the other searchers' beams made patterns of shifting light. Another noise followed, a wailing shriek. Reid twitched. "Owl," she added, and nudged his shoulder.

His eyes skimmed the treetops. She wondered if he still feared the dark.

"JJ," he said, and jogged forward. "JJ!"

She saw it. A splash of red, vivid in the white. Red and orange; a striped sweater that JJ had looked at on a whiteboard just hours before and thought, again, of her son. Reid reached that splash, crouching in a smooth flurry of limbs, reaching into the nook between the trees with his voice a calming whisper.

JJ moved up beside him as muddy arms wrapped around his neck. "Hi, Alice," she soothed, and reached into her pocket for the something right these parents had trusted her with. "We've got your bunny. Time to go home."

Sometimes, things went right.


	9. October 9th: Surprise!

**October 9** **th** **: Surprise!**

 **.**

 _October 9_ _th_ _:_ _ **Birthday! – 200 words –**_ _Time to scare the ultimate Halloween fan!_

 **.**

If they were going to strike, prior experience told him it would be at work.

But… they didn't.

"Hi, Spence," JJ said, barely looking at him.

"Hey, kid," Rossi called out, arguing with the coffeepot. Hotch said nothing, just nodded.

When the day was over, he walked to his car slowly, morose. He wasn't disappointed. Honestly. He didn't _expect_ anything, really he didn't. Fumbled with his keys, dropped them, and when he crouched to pick them up, the parking lot attacked him with noise.

"Surprise!" screamed the car next to him, and he hit the ground with a yelp. Around him, the team popped up. Morgan had an _air horn,_ where the heck did he get that?! Hotch, a smile; Rossi, an armful of what looked like novelty ties. Garcia, a cake shaped like a football, oddly.

JJ had _The_ Hat.

"Figured you wouldn't expect us here," Prentiss said smugly, perching on his hood. "Happy Birthday, Spence."

Reid blinked. Twice. "You do know that the risk of accident in the workplace is at its highest in areas where vehicles are—"

In retrospect, he absolutely deserved having the Cake Hat yanked over his head by JJ.

But he smiled anyway.


	10. October 10th: Pumpkin

**October 10** **th** **: Pumpkin**

 **.**

 _October 10th:_ _ **Presents!**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Someone receives an unexpected gift._

 **.**

Morgan glared at the box on his desk. _Trick or treat!? :D_ asked the label. Reid's voice with a hint of Garcia, and he didn't trust it as far as he could throw it. Which would be far if it started screaming.

He opened it. Carefully.

"What is _with_ this kid?" Morgan grumbled. Prentiss leaned over, picking up and awing at the miniature pumpkin within, before pausing and pushing the box back. He peered inside.

A copy of Vonnegut's _Mother Night_ , with another note stickied on top.

 _Signed. You owe me lunch. Happy Halloween! SR._

That one was all Reid.


	11. October 11th: Babysitting

**October 11** **th** **: Babysitting**

 **.**

 _October 11th:_ _ **WTF**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- I don't know what your character(s) is/are doing, but this is the reaction to it!_

 **.**

She's an agent first, so when things get weird, her first instinct is _always_ to reach for a weapon. And a silent house… that's weird.

She's Spence's best friend second, and her faith (and awareness of his innate Reidiness) in him is also absolute. So she doesn't panic. Yet.

There's a sound.

A giggle.

"What are you two _doing_?" she exclaims, right as pasta hurtles past her head and into the wall. Two sheepish eyes stare at her from the floor.

"Nothing," Spence says quickly, hiding his hands.

"Shooting pasta into _space_!" Henry exclaims. "Oop… nothing. We're doing nothing, Mama."


	12. October 12th: Skellington

**October 12** **th** **: Skellington**

 _I wish I could add in a picture of Jack Skellington in for those who haven't seen The Nightmare Before Christmas, but ffnet is mean as usual!_

 **.**

 **.**

 _October 12th:_ _ **Hey, Hi There, Hello**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- Crossover time! Two characters from different universes meet unexpectedly._

 **.**

He hates Halloween. Kids use the excuse that they're wearing masks as an excuse to be more monstrous than actual monsters.

He sinks down, it's dark, and he's terrified.

A stick cracks. A dog sniffs. Spencer turns his head.

There's a skeleton behind him. It bends down and keeps on bending, long and thin and impossibly proportioned. Finally, its face is inches from his, light glinting in the nothing black of his orbital sockets. "What's this?" it asks softly, and he swallows hard. A red light gleams by the skeleton's feet.

"Spencer Reid?" Spencer peeps.

"Are you scared of me, Spencer?" it asks, cocking its head and examining him.

Spencer thinks about that. "No," he answers. After all, there's so much more he fears than a skeleton in a pinstripe coat and tails. "You can't exist, logically. I'm not scared of things that don't exist."

That's a little bit of a lie, but the skeleton doesn't realize.

"Interesting," the skeleton says. "I bet I can change your mind about that."

He spends the next sixteen years trying, and never quite manages it.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

"Everyone hail to the Pumpkin King," Reid murmurs, watching the sun set through the window.

Waiting for Halloween.


	13. October 13th: Jitters

**October 13** **th** **: Jitters**

 **.**

 _October 13th:_ _ **Panic, possibly some disco.**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Picture prompt! Let your imagination run wild._

 **.**

"You got her favourite donuts, right?" Reid jitters, pacing in place. "We have to get her favourites, if we don't get her favourites, she'll think we forgot, and studies show that friendships based on mutual appreciation—"

"She'll go back to London!" wails Garcia, flapping. "Oh, god, someone get the donuts!"

"Guys, it's Emily, not the Queen," Morgan soothes, but the two are already gone, flailing down the hall in a flurry of long arms and purple bangles. "She likes any donuts!"

There's a crash.

"I'm okay!" Reid whimpers.

 **Plz hurry** JJ texts quickly, pausing at the _bloop_. **Bring donuts.**


	14. October 14th: Sandalwood

**October 14** **th** **: Sandalwood**

 **.**

 _October 14th:_ _ **It's all about the he said/she said.**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Write anything... as long as it's all (or mostly!) dialogue._

 **.**

Reid's drunk and rambling. "Your olfactory bulb is directly connected to brain areas strongly implicated in emotion. Memories triggered by odours cause greater activity in the limbic system, leading to high emotional arousal, especially if that odour is one that you love. For instance, sandalwood; I use it as a memory trigger due to a high emotional investment in the scent. Sandalwood perfume is actually mostly made up of a mixture of synthetic ionones due to overharvesting, like javanol, ebanol—"

JJ looks up. "Doesn't Emily wear sandalwood?" she asks, and Reid coughs.

"Yes," he says quietly, flushing. "It's lovely."


	15. October 15th: Nrrgh

**October 15** **th** **: Nrrgh**

 **.**

 _October 15th:_ _ **Crack House**_ _-_ _ **400 words**_ _\- Genre is crack! On Halloween/applicable in-universe spooky time, your characters find an abandoned house/spaceship/cave/ect._ _ **Spooktacular bonus:**_ _Supernatural beings (vampires, ghosts, zombies, ect.)_

 **.**

It starts, not with a bang, but with a fundamental shift in Spencer Reid's understanding of how the human anatomy responds to adverse conditions, i.e., being dead.

"FBI, get down," he says, and the unsub replies, "Nrrgh."

And then the unsub attempts to eat him. Using a collection of moves that he refers to as 'evasion', and Emily refers to as 'fucking flailing', Reid manages to both not be bitten and to get away. Also, mostly because Emily shoots the unsub/cannibal/ _something_ in the chest. And then the head. Because the chest shot doesn't stop him.

"Holy shit," says Reid, feeling very much like the world just patted him on the shoulder, said _you had a good run_ , and then changed the rules completely. "What just happened?"

There's a groan from down the hill, a collective jumble of hungry voices, and as one they decide this is a question best answered inside. Now. Five minutes ago. Basically, they ran.

"Hotch!" they shriek, skidding into the dusty lobby of the house they'd been clearing before their unsub got chompy. Hotch turns to look at them.

"There you guys are," he says. "There's something odd going on here—"

"Zombies!" they both yelp, and the groans outside grow groanier. There's a long silence. JJ steps backwards out from an adjourning room, Morgan following.

Rossi walks over to the door. "Okay, this is the last straw," he's grumbling, and both Reid and Emily fail in a tangled attempt to stop him from doing what he's about to do. "Fucking _zombies_. Last Halloween, it was toothpaste flavoured donuts. Don't get me _started_ on my Secret Santa gift, and now _zombies,_ I am working with children, Aaron, you have hired children, and—"

He opens the door.

"Nrrrgh," says the zombie. His eye rolls out of his orbital socket, landing on the ground between them with a wet _plop_ and splattering Rossi's shoes with misplaced vitreous humour.

"Ah," says Rossi, and slams the door shut again. "Oh dear."

 _Knock knock_ says the door, as the zombies politely request entry. Reid hears a window break, as another not-so-politely gains entry.

"Okay, who here has a zombie apocalypse backup plan?" Morgan demands, turning to the group as they begin backing up towards the rickety stairs. "I know at least one has gotta."

Emily and Reid exchange a single, lingering glance.

Their time to _shine._

"Fuck. Yes," says Emily.


	16. October 16th: Scared

**October 16** **th** **: Scared**

 **.**

 _October 16th:_ _ **All by myself**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- One character, alone._

 **.**

Uncle Spence _understands_ that sometimes being alone is okay, yanno? Just a book and music and nothing else in the world. That's Henry's idea of a nice time, sometimes.

It helps with things. Like forgetting that Mom fights baddies bigger than she is; something that scares him… a lot. Or Daddy being a cop; same problem…

"What do you want to do today, Henry?" Uncle Spence asks, and Henry looks towards his new comic book. Heroes who don't die no matter the baddies.

Uncle Spence just smiles, makes milkshakes, and lets him be.

Yeah. He understands.

Henry's grateful for that.


	17. October 17th: Music

**October 17** **th** **: Music**

 **.**

 _October 17th:_ _ **What's This?**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Pick an object or person and make the reader think it's something else. Either reveal at the end or make the reader guess._

 **.**

"It's a book."

He indulges. "It's not." Tucking it under his arm, checking his appearance twice, he leaves. She follows.

"It's absolutely a book." She's stunning today. He can't compare. "Square, musty, _old_."

She doesn't let up. "You're a book giver. Birthdays, Christmases. Just because."

Scolding as they walk up the gently sloping hill: "Obsessive behaviour is rarely healthy, Spencer."

But as he kneels on the lawn, she's silent. When he looks around, she's gone. It's okay. He shouldn't indulge in fantasy.

Maybe just for today.

Pressing play on the tape-deck; the music floats across Emily's grave.

 _Just for today…_


	18. October 18th: Iridescent

**October 18** **th** **: Iridescent**

 **.**

 _October 18th:_ _ **Really?!**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- Villain is wearing/doing/using something very unexpected when Hero encounters them._

 **.**

"I'm just saying—"

Morgan yanked the wheel, shedding a fine coat of sparkles into the interior. "Well, stop saying it, Prentiss. I don't bring up the time that unsub got the jump on you, do I?"

Prentiss blinked innocently, hanging from what JJ had started fondly referring to as the 'oh shit, Morgan's driving' bar. "Well, that wasn't funny," she said, and flicked glitter off her pants. "You walking right into a recreation of Riverdance complete with naked unsub and _copious_ amounts of glitter… that's _hilarious._ "

Morgan shuddered. "Don't tell Rossi that I tackled him," he groaned. Glitter puffed into the air. "I'll never live it down. He was so… _iridescent_. It was like holding down a fish. A naked… screaming… glittering fish…"

Emily patted him on the arm. "Oh, Derek," she said, and he noted glitter on her hair that she was actually managing to make look good. "I'm going to tell _everyone_."

Furious silence reigned in the car as he seethed until a voice from the back piped up hopefully, "Actually, glitter is really effective evidence due to the abundance of unique particle types, at least twenty-thousand, that can be matched to narrow down suspects."

God _damnit_.


	19. October 19th: Hustle

**October 19** **th** **: Hustle**

 **.**

 _October 19th:_ _ **Hold My Beer**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Character totally has this. ;)_

 **.**

"Two weeks of paperwork." Rossi is supremely confident. Reid's nervous. Shaking his head at Emily. _Don't do it,_ that expression pleads. _Don't rest this on my skinny shoulders._

And Emily hasn't turned down a bet yet. "I trust you," she says, handing the cue to Reid. "You've got this."

"I don't have this," Reid moans, aiming. The eight ball mocks him. This is _fantastic._ No paperwork ahoy, all because the kid can't—

Reid sinks it. No hesitation, fucking _smirking_. "It's all math, Dave," he says quietly.

Emily leans closer. "That's called a hustle, baby," she purrs. "Enjoy the paperwork."

God _damnit_.


	20. October 20th: Whumpth

**October 20** **th** **: Whumpth**

 **.**

 _October 20th:_ _ **Big Badda Boom**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Something blows up... and it's magnificent!_

 **.**

Hotch glanced up to the man struggling up the hill ahead. A river bubbled cheerfully downhill alongside them, narrating his thoughts. His worries, really.

There was a shout ahead—Reid hurtled Morgan-style towards him, throwing them both into the river. Hotch tried to surface against a firm arm—and the world exploded with a resounding _whumpth._

They surfaced, staring at the crater where the shed-formerly-belonging-to-the-unsub had stood.

"How did you—" Hotch began, shaking water from his gun with trembling hands.

"Gut feeling," Reid replied, sinking into the water. "Also, I saw smoke. I think I need to sit down."


	21. October 21st: Headache

**October 21** **st** **: Headache**

 **.**

 _October 21st:_ _ **Best Enemies**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Hero is having a bad day, Villain cheers them up._

 **.**

The hesitant scuff of a high heel warned him. Prentiss didn't wear high heels. JJ wore them confidentially. Rossi hadn't quite taken to wearing heels at work yet, although it was just a matter of time.

"Strauss," he said, his office dimmed to stave off a growing tension headache. Working late, Jack was home with Jessica, still grieving his mom…

It was all too much. He tensed for whatever else she was going to heap onto him now.

"Good work today, Aaron," she said finally. "Your team did well."

And then she was gone.

He smiled, and closed the casefile.


	22. October 22nd: Haunted

**October 22** **nd** **: Haunted**

 **.**

 _October 22nd:_ _ **No Talking!**_ _-_ _ **400 words**_ _\- Progress a plot without your characters speaking or making noise._ _ **Spooktacular bonus:**_ _Your character is not alone when they think they are._

 **.**

Men appeared to be terrible at remembering where they'd put things. There was a scientific basis behind this observation. Males tended towards outperforming females in spatial tasks, with the exception of object location.

Even men with ridiculously high IQs and eidetic memories.

He was panicking, and she could only watch it for so long. Waiting until he'd ducked into the bathroom to look for his his shanghaied shoe, she slipped over to where she could see a shoelace sneaking out from underneath the bed, tugging it out into view.

It was strange. When Spencer studied or read, he was noisy. He spoke out loud, sometimes unrelated to what he was reading, he paced, he huffed, he laughed. When he slept, he talked. Sometimes it was gibberish, speaking as quickly as what he did when he was awake but with half the sense. Sometimes they were sentences, words. Often, when audible, it was nightmarish.

It made her ache, and she'd lay next to him and wish she could smooth the worries from his face, push away the fears and scars his life had left on him.

In this moment, so intently focused on getting everything perfect, he was utterly soundless, his face pale and mouth a tight line. He darted back in, did a double-take, and dived on the shoes.

She looked down at him as he fumbled over the laces. Neatly cut suit, hair brushed, tie straight for once. He paused, breathing slowly, clearly lost in that big ol' brain of his. Haunted by his insecurities. A lock of his hair tumbled messily into his eye.

It was silly. Careless. Likely whatever woman he was getting all dressed up for would love the roguish lock of hair, just as she had in her time, but… it would stress him to see it.

She reached out and brushed it back, wincing at the way he jolted and looked around at the phantom touch, confused. Reached a hand up to brush his face.

A knock echoed. In an instant, the worry disappeared, replaced with a scared/keen expression that softened his face and smoothed out the lines. Just like she wished she could. He grabbed his coat and vanished out of the door in a whirl of mild cologne and slightly rumpled purple shirt.

 _Move on, Maeve,_ she thought, settling back onto the bed sadly. _Be happy for him._

And she was.

Honest.


	23. October 23rd: Corazon

**October 23** **rd** **: Corazon**

 **.**

 _October 23rd:_ _ **Do Over**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Re-write/fix your least favourite canon scene._

 **.**

It was a gut feeling. He hadn't gotten this damn old without trusting his gut feeling, and this was a big one.

Well, it was also the kid's weird-ass behaviour, the shadows under his eyes, the wincing when lights hit him in _just_ the wrong way. But, it was mostly a gut feeling.

That gut feeling had him following Reid into the bedroom, finding his vest on the ground and hair spiked into ridiculous clumps where he'd dragged his hands through it. His face was pinched tight in a way that had Rossi's gut cramping in worry.

"We have to go, over there, look—" Reid was babbling, swaying, blinking rapidly, and god-fucking-damnit, Rossi _knew_ he was sick, the secretive little shit. "Rossi, please—"

"Yeah, yeah," Rossi agreed, glancing at the photo. He'd send Hotch. "Come on. We'll go." Hand on Reid's back, he steered him from the room.

Kid wasn't going anywhere but a bed and a nice hit of Ibuprofen. As sick as he was, it'd be goddamn irresponsible to keep him in the field. _Yeah, knew he was disorientated,_ Rossi imagined telling Strauss. _Let him carry anyway. Sorry about all the holes; he got a bit fucked up in the process of us proving we don't need to take sick days._

Case wasn't worth that.

 **.**

* * *

 **.**

 **I hate this episode with such a burning passion that I completely smashed word count writing this AND I REFUSE TO REMOVE ANY WORDS BECAUSE HOLY SHITFUCKINGBALLS DO I HATE THIS EPISODE SO MUCH. I'M ANGRY JUST THINKING ABOUT IT. WAY TO DROP THE BALL ABSOFUCKINGEVERYBODY.**


	24. October 24th: Dilly

**October 24** **th** **: Dilly**

 **.**

 _October 24th:_ _ **Per Chants**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Use some ritualistic words. Mystical summoning? Wedding? Religious moment? Prayer to the Flying Spaghetti Monster?_

 **.**

Hysterical parents, Rossi was _well_ aware, were a part of their job. Usually with damn good reason to be hysterical. Hysterical children; also a part of their job.

Hysterical mothers foisting hysterical children onto him? Not so much.

He tried shushing and bouncing and, finally, he sung.

"When I am queen, dilly, dilly," he hummed, "you'll be my king. Who told me so, dilly, dilly, who told me so? I told myself, dilly, dilly, I told me so…"

The babe snuffled, falling quiet.

"Good work, me," he said smugly, sneaking in a cuddle while no one was looking.

Job done.


	25. October 25th: Boobaliciousness

**October 25** **th** **: Boobaliciousness**

 **.**

 _October 25th:_ _ **Technically Correct**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- An in depth explanation of something in your world. e.g.: the intricacies of a spell, how a piece of bureaucracy works, actual technobabble, ect._

 **.**

Garcia beams. Her 'paints' are spread out in front of her. He's supposed to be watching, waiting for her to be ready for their night out, but something, somehow, went awry.

"What did you do?" he asks suspiciously, feeling oddly vulnerable without his contacts and at her mercy.

"Undertones and complimentary colours, my love," she says, and leans closer to run a thumb along the line under his eye. "Cool tones are natural and warm tones, well, they're a _statement_. A 'look-at-me-hot-stuff', not that you need it, Mr. Cheekbones. Look at _these_." Another finger to his face, and he looks plaintively at Morgan. "Rule of thumb: three cool tones—blush, eyeshadow, lipstick—and you've got a natural swagger. Make one a warm, and you're a subdued kind of boobaliciousness. Three warm tones? Careful now, or you're gonna look _jacked_."

Glasses are shoved in his face and he puts them on warily. Blinks. Stares at the mirror. "I can't believe you've done this."

"Pshaw," Garcia scoffs. "You look _gorgeous_."

Morgan says nothing. Reid waits, shrinking into the chair, until finally there's a mumbled, "Pre _tty_ Boy, look at you."

She lets him wash it off after, but he's sure she has photos.


	26. October 26th: Roomies

**October 26** **th** **: Roomies**

 **.**

 _October 26th:_ _ **Domesticity**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- The moment when your character gets a little too comfortable around the person they live with/share a space with._

 **.**

On cases they bunk in nice and tight with each other, like an incestuous family of hamsters. And she can't win, no matter who shares the room. Reid sleeps with a light on. Hotch makes her feel so self-conscious about everything, even her freaking _pyjamas_. Rossi snores, _stridently_. JJ's lovely, but she wakes up whistling at the crack of dawn.

And Morgan.

Derek fucking Morgan and his _push-ups_.

"Aren't you done _yet_?" she grits out. It's midnight and he's _still_ going.

"Prentiss, this kinda body doesn't come about easy," he says, vanishing again. "Ninety-nine, one-hundred…"

A hopeful pause.

"… One-hundred-and-one!"


	27. October 27th: Home

**October 27** **th** **: Home**

 **.**

 _October 27th:_ _ **Nobody's Home**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- No characters. No dialogue._

 **.**

On this particular night, their homes are:

JJ's is empty. The rooms are aired. She lives alone, but she's not lonely.

Morgan's is empty. Clooney isn't there, but there's a well-worn leash hanging on a hook. Despite this and despite him rarely sleeping alone, he's often lonely.

Hotch's is empty. Divorce papers on the desk, unsigned. An empty crib. Always lonely.

Emily's is empty, but she likes it that way. Honest.

Reid's is empty. He sleeps on the couch with his back to the wall and eyes on the front door.

Some of these get better, given time.

Some don't.


	28. October 28th: Misdemeanour

**October 28** **th** **: Misdemeanour**

 **.**

 _October 28th:_ _ **Gotcha**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- One of your characters is caught doing something illegal._

 **.**

"Anything notable?" Morgan asks, jogging across the road. Reid blinks, rocking back and looking scandalized. "What?"

"You do realize that most pedestrian accidents are caused by jaywalking?" Reid asks. "It's a fineable misdemeanour—you just did it in front of an FBI agent!"

Morgan cocks an eyebrow. "Are you going to arrest me?" he asks, grinning, nudging his friend. Reid opens his mouth to reply, right as Rossi dodges traffic and bounces onto the sidewalk.

"What are we standing around for, come on!" he barks. Morgan shifts closer to Reid.

"Go on," Morgan whispers. "Tell _him_ off. I dare you."


	29. October 29th: Alone

**October 29** **th** **: Alone**

AN: **Warning for horror . I'm a horror freak. I love spooky scary awful things and yet, I've never actually written a horror fic... this scene is an outtake from a horror fic I was planning, but haven't quite gotten to yet.**

 **.**

 _October 29th:_ _ **Evility**_ _-_ _ **400 words**_ _\- Genre is horror, suspense, thriller, or mystery. No fluff. No comfort. Happy ending discouraged._ _ **Spooktacular bonus:**_ _Add a phenomenon that you leave unexplained._

 **.**

It came in the darkness and it came in the light. There's no escaping it.

They run. They hide. And they fall.

One by one; they fall.

"Get clothes, whatever the boys need," Aaron says, peering outside, gun in hand. The streetlights outside glint from his jaw, cast his profile in dim light. "Hurry. I'll get food."

"Mama, I don't want—" Henry mumbles, huddled against Jack, both boys pale and frozen in the darkened hall.

"Shh," she murmurs, anxious, moving towards them. "Come on, quick—"

A window cracks. It doesn't break or creak or whisper open. It simply cracks. As though a delicate point of pressure is pressing inexorably inward. They look at it. The night looks back.

"Run," Aaron cries, backing towards them, swinging the gun up. The window fractures, splinters. "Run!"

They do. The boys first, panicked, shoving each other in their haste. She follows, slips, hits the bannister.

A gun fires once. Twice.

Bedroom. Jack's bedroom. She hurtles in, looking for the boys, sees Henry pressed against the closet door.

Another shot. Someone screams. It could be Aaron.

It could be _it_.

It's fooled them before.

"In—quick!" she gasps, grabbing her son and dragging him into the closet, the door slightly ajar. Pulling him tight, chests heaving together, burying his head against her to muffle his hiccupping moans. Mouth against his soft-blonde hair, some small comfort, as the night falls silent. Tense. Waiting. Even her heart pauses in that long moment as, outside the door, stairs creak.

No more shots. She sinks lower.

And waits.

Silence. Utter silence. The kind that grows louder with every noise that breaks it: Henry's breathing, her pulse, a scuff of shoes under the bed—

Jack. Staring at her from under his bed, mouth gaping open with fright. She sees him twitch, shift, fighting the urge to run to her arms. Shakes her head— _no_! _Stay there! Hide!_

But he inches closer. Another creak.

He gasps. The noise is loud and the silence shatters. He goes to hurtle from him hiding place and—

From the darkness of the bed surrounding him, she watches as a hand snaps around his mouth. Pins him down. Pulls him close. His eyes bulge above those gaunt fingers.

He's not alone under there.

Her heart shudders. There are fingers, nails, the flex of tendons.

But there's nothing else.

She screams and the door opens.


	30. October 30th: Regrets

**October 30** **th** **: Regrets**

 **.**

 _October 30th:_ _ **Whoops, lol!**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Character can't stop laughing at someone or something... and they're really not supposed to be._

 **.**

"Stop laughing!"

Reid breathes deeply. Nods, turning to his friend, eyes watering, ready to be the most professional of all—

One look, and he's on the ground sobbing-laughing again, safe from the gaggle of infuriated geese on his side of the fence. "I… said not to—aha—jump it."

Morgan glowers. "You have a gun! Help me!"

Footsteps approach, drawn by the sounds of hysteria. "I'm not shooting a goose," Reid says indignantly. "It's not their fault."

Emily appears, staring.

"Go on," growls Morgan, dodging another hissing goose. "Say it."

"Well," she says, deadpan, "have a gander at this then."


	31. October 31st: Halloween

**October 31** **st** **: Halloween**

 **.**

 _October 31st:_ _ **Spooky**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- Scare your favourite character or OTP._

 **.**

It's Halloween, she walks into her home, and it's silent.

She's not scared of ghosts, nossirie. Not scared of witches, ghouls, or skeletal fingers. Unlike him, she's not even scared of the dark itself.

But this. The silent home. The drip. The waiting madman.

It's come knocking enough times for all of them; they've learned to fear it.

She touches her weapon. Steps through the apartment as though her heart is still beating, and she hopes and hopes and fucking hopes he's alive, okay, alive, _alive_ —

She sees something on the floor, someone, lurches towards it—

He staggers up, smiling guiltily with a broken wine glass in his hand. "Oh hi, Em, you're… early," he stammers, and flushes. The table is decorated with a tasteful air that's not him at all, not even one grinning pumpkin, just… candles. A flower. She doesn't know its name, but she bets he does. "Happy Halloween."

"I thought you were…" She doesn't tell the truth. "… doing something spooky for Halloween, Spence." This is new, this thing between them. She's still learning it.

He smiles again. Takes her hand. "Nah," he says, all seven shades of shy, and her heart thumps again. "Maybe later."

 **.**

 **.**

 **And we're done! 31 days, 31 prompts, and we're finished! I had an absolute blast and I'm so happy everyone seemed to enjoy them as well! Thanks to /u/Atojiso over on /r/fanfiction for running the prompts this month, and thanks to everyone on the /r/fanfiction Discord server for helping me out with cutting down word counts every time I went a little wild with them! And of course, thanks to everyone who read these weird little experiments! They may be returning in December with a Christmas version! :D**


	32. November 1st: Goodbye

**November 1** **st** **: Goodbye**

 **AN: PINT-SIZED PROMPTS ARE BACK. Two per day, because I missed the November prompts, and I'm making up for those now! As always, feel free to bounce over to /r/fanfiction on reddit to join in with the mini-prompts posted by the lovely /u/Atojiso, or to join in on the monthly challenges that /u/Tafferling creates for us!**

 **And, as always, enjoy!**

 **.**

 _November 1st:_ _ **Easy**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Write a monologue._

 **.**

I'm sorry that this is how it ends. This isn't the goodbye you deserve.

My team has always been my first priority. I regret that, sometimes. Other times, I'm proud. I've seen you all become agents that the country can be proud of. I like to think that I had a hand in that, in some small way.

I've seen you grow into a man that I am endlessly proud of, Spencer, and this doesn't detract from that.

But I was wrong. The work should have never been priority number one. I should have realized this sooner. Haley, the divorce, Foyet. So many times I should have walked away. I didn't.

Until now. My work with the Bureau is over. I need to focus on the real priority number one. My son needs me more. I know you'll understand. And I'm sorry the end is so sudden. Sometimes there are no words to neatly sum up a life, a career. No tidy conclusion.

Sometimes, it just ends.


	33. November 2nd: Brave

**November 2** **nd** **: Brave**

 **.**

 _November 2_ _nd_ _:_ _ **Storm**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– It is, in fact, a dark and stormy night..._

 **.**

On TV, there's always a brave character and a cowardly character. The brave character is never scared of things like clowns or shadows under the bed. Not like Henry is.

After some thinking, Henry realizes that maybe he's the cowardly character. Scared a lot.

Like tonight. There's a storm—loud thunder booms that sound like guns and rain that rattles against the windows like claws scratching in. He's cowardly and can't stop crying, and that's _before_ the lights go out.

Uncle Spence is there too. He has a flashlight and a sheet and both these things make a fort that closes out the storm.

"It's alright to be scared," Uncle Spence says, hugging him close. "I get scared sometimes."

"But you're brave," Henry replies, because he is—just like Mama.

Uncle Spencer tells him, "Brave doesn't mean never being scared." After that, Henry finds that he likes the cowardly character a little bit more.

After all, the cowardly character rarely runs away, so maybe he's brave too.


	34. November 3rd: 1968

**November 3** **rd** **: 1968**

 **.**

 _November 3_ _rd_ _:_ _ **Murder**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Oh, no! Someone got murdered! Was it the bad guys, a random OC walking down the street... or your MC?_

 **.**

Grubby snow shoved against the shopfronts, worn grey where wheels had bumped over it. Dave kicked at a clump, watched it spool apart and drip into a storm drain. The street was quiet. Across the road behind a single gleaming Oldsmobile, a man smoked silently. Emma ran ahead, bolting down the thin slice of nothing cutting past the Criterion.

"Wait up," he called. Breakfast would be getting cold. You wanted the best breakfast in Long Island, you went to the Rossi's. Everyone knew that. And they were gonna be _late_ , and it was gonna get him boxed on the ears.

"Davey!" came the sharp reply, her voice shrill. Skidding on the snow, he ran to her.

A man lay in the grey snow of the alley. Blue and red and white all over.

"Is he dead?" he asked, curious and frightened. Blank eyes stared over an open throat. "Woah."

"Woah," agreed Emma. "We should get help."

They ran from that nothing stare, but he never forgot it.


	35. November 4th: Backstreet

**November 4** **th** **: Backstreet**

 **.**

 _November 4_ _th_ _:_ _ **Music**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Jam some music in there. Singing, background, passing marching band, radio, whatever you like!_

 **.**

"Aaron, we can explain," Dave said. Hotch seethed. Nearby, Reid hid behind Prentiss, Morgan stood firm and proud. JJ and Garcia tittered nervously to the side.

"Get explaining then," he said. "Start with… the ears."

They looked at each other awkwardly. "Perhaps…" Reid murmured, revealing… _everything_. The low-slung jeans, the white turtleneck, the… _cat ears_. "…we should demonstrate." The room darkened.

Hotch stared.

"What the fu—" he began, right as _Grant fucking Anderson_ spun out of nowhere in matching cat-ears, and began to gyrate in unison with half his goddamn team. Then the singing began.

"What the fu—" he repeated, to a chorus of _I don't care who you are, where you're from, what you did, as long as you love me_.

"You're in a boyband," Hotch choked. " _You're_ in a boyband," to the happily dancing Prentiss in her jaunty outfit. "You're a woman!"

"Are you mad?" Dave asked guiltily. There was really only one answer to that.

"You invited _Anderson_ and not me? _Why?_ "


	36. November 5th: Seventeen

**November 5** **th** **: Seventeen**

 **.**

 _November 5_ _th_ _:_ _ **Fawk**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Continuing a proud NaNoWriMo tradition: set something on fire, it's Guy Fawkes Day!_

 **.**

The fire blazed, roaring to the sky; a cacophony of pops and whistles, leaking black smoke that clung to their clothes. Aaron darted near the flames, feeling the heat press back hungrily against his skin, his clothes hissing as condensation evaporated.

"Come back from there!" she laughed. He didn't. Smiled, stepped that little bit closer. Lobbed the log into the white-hot heart, watching as embers and ash whirled into the sky to eddy down slowly around them. In the ring of light the bonfire left, their peers sang drunkenly. The boys did the same dance as Aaron. The _look at me_ dance. The _I'm alive_ dance.

He stepped away. "Idiot," Haley said, and kissed him once. Twice, and her breath tasted like marshmallow and smoke. "Why'd you get so close?" She patted at a scorch mark on his shirt.

So many answers. Because I'm seventeen and alive, in love, uncaring. All options.

"I love you," he said instead, and planned their forever.

The fire burned all night.


	37. November 6th: Bet

**November 6** **th** **: Bet**

 **.**

 _November 6_ _th_ _:_ _ **Hat**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– At least one person is wearing a funny hat._

 ** _._**

Hotch met each and every one of his team members' eyes, making sure that they were paying attention. "I'm afraid the budget committee has issued several, quite restrictive cutbacks. These will considerably influence our cases."

No one blinked. No one breathed. The atmosphere in the room tensed. Reid's gaze locked on a point over Hotch's shoulder, his mouth twisted. Morgan's eyes were wide, his hands trembling on the table. JJ just looked worried. Garcia stared straight down into her lap, shoulders shaking.

Prentiss cocked her head back curiously, glancing from one team member to the other and then back to Hotch again.

"We'll discuss this further when I return," Hotch said, both impressed and disappointed by their willpower, and walked sedately from the conference room. Outside, Dave lounged against a wall, and held out his hand for both the jaunty, rainbow-coloured hat and twenty bucks from Hotch's wallet.

"Told you they wouldn't have the balls to laugh," Dave said, flicking the hat's propeller and watching it spin.


	38. November 7th: Oops

**November 7** **th** **: Oops**

 **.**

 _November 7_ _th_ _:_ _ **Badass**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Write a completely overpowered character. Someone new? Drug fuelled rage? Just angry 'cuz the coffee's bad?_

 **.**

Their teammate hunched over the buzzer with a maniacal gleam to his eyes. JJ could see an outline traced around him, a visible sign of just how hard he was vibrating on the spot.

"Final round," the announcer boomed. "Just three questions left."

"Maybe you should let us answer one, Spence," JJ said gently, reaching for the buzzer.

Spencer looked at her. "I tried," he said, eyes wide and white-ringed. " _She got it wrong_."

JJ looked at Emily, who shrugged innocently. "Hey, I was close."

"No you weren't!" Spencer yelped, his voice shrill. Everyone looked at them.

"Jesus," Morgan hissed. "This was a _shit_ idea, Prentiss."

"No it wasn't," Emily protested. "We've got seven-hundred points!"

JJ thought that might be a bad thing, judging by the everyone's murderous glares. "How many red bulls did you give him?" she asked.

"About seven," Emily answered, after a beat. "But he's _winning_ , aren't you, Spencer?"

"I can taste my heartbeat," he whispered, staring at his hands on the buzzer. " _Yay!_ "


	39. November 8th: Nom

**November 8** **th** **: Nom**

 **.**

 _November 8_ _th_ _:_ _ **Blame**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar? (Metaphorical cookies allowed.)_

 **.**

The cat sat accusingly in the middle of the conference room table, one blobby, ceramic paw held skyward. Its head lay next to it, round eyes staring at Morgan, who looked everywhere but into those green-gold depths. From within the decapitated kitty, the smell of macadamia chocolate chip wafted.

"I'm only going to ask this once," Garcia said, prowling in front of the door. No one moved. No one breathed. Everyone waited. In her hands, she held a fluffy pen, tapping it warningly against one palm. "Which of you _stole_ the cookie from the kitty-cat cookie jar?"

No one answered. Mouths dropped open. _Guilty mouths._

The door slammed as Rossi burst in, a tray of coffees in his hands and a grin on his face. "Morning, nerds!" he boomed. "Ooh, another cookie. Don't mind if I do." He nommed happily on the pilfered cookie, flopping into his chair and noting every eye on him. "What? Do I have something on my face?"

Garcia slowly raised the pen.


	40. November 9th: Prettiest

**November 9** **th** **: Prettiest**

 **.**

 _November 9th:_ _ **Truth or Dare**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Does your character have a big truth that needs to be told? A dare they need to give or fulfil? Perhaps they might even play an actual game of Truth or Dare._

 **.**

"And this is why you never play truth or dare with a seven-year-old," Reid said, as Jack proudly asked Emily if she'd 'ever eaten boogers'.

Emily pulled a face at Reid, and then pulled a face at Jack as well. JJ and Garcia were helplessly giggling. Hotch and Rossi, the stately adults of this gathering, sat watching them through the sliding doors, both hiding their amusement.

"Come on," Jack said. "You gotta answer."

"Have to," Reid corrected, Henry cuddled on his lap, eyes sleepy. "But he's right. You do have to answer."

"No, I haven't eaten boogers," Emily lied. "Henry, truth or dare?"

"Dare!" Henry said, after a glance at Jack to be sure the older boy was watching.

Emily pretended to think. "I dare you… to tell us who the prettiest girl in the room is."

Henry blinked. "That's easy," he said finally, shrugging. "It's Uncle Spence!"

Spencer's face was almost worth the sore rib she had from laughing.

"Thanks, Henry," he said finally. "I'm flattered."


	41. November 10th: Hare

**November 10** **th** **: Hare**

 **.**

 _November 10th:_ _ **Quirky**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Congrats, your favourite character has acquired a quirky side-character for the day!_

 **.**

"Reid, sit down." Hotch paused. "Ask your… friend… to also sit down."

"Say please," said the hare. "What's up, Hotch?"

Hotch stared. Then, very slowly, looked away from the hare and up at Reid. "The Bureau has very strict rules about bringing pets to work—" he began.

"I'm not a pet," said the hare indignantly, standing up on his hind legs.

"—this includes rabbits—"

"Excuse me!" spluttered the hare. "Not a rabbit!"

"He's a hare," Reid said miserably. "I don't know where he came from. I woke up and he was _there_ , on my bed, _talking_."

"I didn't choose to exist," sniffed the hare, whiskers twitching. "It just happened."

Hotch sighed. "Well, you can't keep him here."

"Alight..." Reid looked down at the hare. "Uh. Come on… Aureilo. We'll… sort something out."

"Fine." The hare ambled slowly to the exit. They were… strangely alike… _somehow_. "Bye, Hal!"

"Who's Hal?" Hotch asked, but they were already gone. From behind him, there was a doggy sigh.


	42. November 11th: Unexpected

**November 11** **th** **: Unexpected**

 **.**

 _November 11_ _th_ _:_ _ **Aww**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Here there be snuggles!_

 **.**

It's happened again, god flipping duck-damnit. It _always_ happens.

"Why?" Garcia asks her screens. The screens don't tell her that her family is _alive_ and _okay_ and not in danger, never in danger…

Always in danger.

A bullet this time. Derek _and_ Spencer this time, and Spencer bad. Not just 'bad' bad but 'possibly really bad' bad. Okay. Calm. Breathe. _They're okay, they won't die until you…_

"They won't die," Garcia repeats. "They won't die."

"Miss. Garcia?" says a voice. Anderson, his face all frowny- worried. "Are you okay?"

"No," she whispers. _They could die_. Arms around her; he holds her tightly.

"The team?" he asks—he knows the work; she doesn't need to answer. "They'll be okay. They're always okay."

She nods, because he's right. Without a word, he takes the keyboard, the mouse, and begins booking a flight until the tears stop enough for her to see the screens.

It's not the first time he's done it for her.

It probably won't be the last.


	43. November 12th: Secret

**November 12** **th** **: Secret**

 **.**

 _November 12_ _th_ _:_ _ **Sneak**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Inexplicable Ninja appears!_

 **.**

This case, like so many others, had gone strange.

 _This is insane,_ Emily thought, staring at the ninja as he flipped beautifully through a window, glass glimmering around him in stop-motion glory. _How can there be another ninja?_ Her shurikens were heavy, hidden in her pockets. _I'm the only ninja in DC!_

 _What the fuck?_ was running through Derek's mind on a loop, diving to the ground as the ninja took out three bad guys with a sweep of his muscled leather-bound legs. _Another ninja?_ Under his shirt, his secret ninja-clan tattoo burned. _How?!_

 _Statistically improbable!_ Reid, of course. _I studied so intently for my mastery of the human body, searched for so long. If there was a ninja other than I, surely I would know?_ He stepped back into the shadows, using them to mask his presence. _I hope this doesn't give me away… the others will never understand…_

Hotch and Rossi crouched together, watching the ninja as he finished the battle effortlessly and ran away without a sound, disappearing like he'd never been there at all. Within Hotch's tie, his hidden ninja daggers hung. Ever since Haley, he'd trained to keep his family safe. But he could never tell them this.

The pen in Rossi's pocket was a poison-tipped dart-blower. He'd have happily told everyone, but then they'd want in on his sick ninja skills.

The five secret-ninjas watched the sixth flee, and they wondered.

Three blocks away, Grant Anderson pulled his ninja mask from his face and sighed. "I did as you asked," he murmured into his hidden earpiece. "The sparrows are safe."

"Good," said Garcia. "See that they stay that way."


	44. November 13th: Agriu

**November 13** **th** **: Agriu**

 **.**

 _November 13_ _th_ _:_ _ **Smash**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Shakespeare invented words, now it's your turn! Hit random keys on your keyboard. Use the result at least once, define it only by using context clues._

 **.**

"This orange juice tastes…" Emily leaned in close to Reid's ear, her lips forming the word in a slow, thick drawl, " _agriu_."

Reid slammed his pen down. "Five times!" he yelled, rocketing out of the chair. "Five times you've used that word! IT'S NOT A WORD! STOP USING IT AS A WORD."

Emily smiled and steepled her hands together, walking backwards into the rolling chair she'd placed strategically behind her and rolling eerily away without breaking eye-contact.

"Yes it is," she whispered, still rolling out of the door and away. " _Yes it iiiiis!"_

"No it's not!" he howled after her, but she was already gone. Everyone stared. Reid flushed red.

"Jeez, Reid," Morgan said slowly. "You alright?"

"Yes!" Reid squeaked. He was going to have to _google_ it. Using the computer. He shuddered at the thought.

"If you're quite done," Hotch said, poking his head out of his office. Reid winced. "This really isn't the environment to present moods that are quite so… _agriu._ "

"ARRRRGH!" screamed Reid.


	45. November 14th: Wizardry

**November 14** **th** **: Wizardry**

 **.**

 _November 14_ _th_ _:_ _ **Out of Nowhere**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Your characters get hit with a massive plot twist._

 **.**

"Dad?"

Hotch closed his suitcase with a snap, shoulders bowed. Right now, Rossi would be telling the team. It hurt.

But it needed to be a clean break. No one could come looking.

Secrecy depended upon it.

"Are you excited?" he asked, picking up the suitcase. Jack had a similar one. They'd get on a plane, fly to London… start new lives. "This is big, Jack. I understand if you're confused and upset."

Jack held the letter that had changed everything. "I'm excited," he said, looking down at the parchment. "But Aunt Jessica? And my friends?"

Hotch ruffled his hair. This was for the best. They'd offered him a teaching position. _Come back,_ the letter had said in McGonagall's careful handwriting. _You were one of the best DADA students we ever had, and we have an opening._

With Peter Lewis looming…

It was for the best.

 _Dear Mr. Hotchner,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…_


	46. November 15th: Scritches

**November 15** **th** **: Scritches**

 **.**

 _November 15_ _th_ _:_ _ **Full Moon**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– The crazies come out tonight. Make it memorably weird! :D_

 **.**

"Just don't panic." JJ looked strained. Something in the room began to howl.

"Do you have dogs in there?" Hotch asked. "Where's the team?"

"I stopped to give you our location," JJ said slowly. "They went ahead and, uh. _This_ happened."

Something tan and _huge_ burst out of the room with a happy bark. "It's Spence!" JJ gasped, as Hotch's hand snapped to his gun. "He just… wants… pats."

Hotch looked down at the _wolf_ wiggling its entire body with excitement, noting hazel eyes and one white paw. "What the fuck," he deadpanned, and then scritched behind Reid's ears just to make him wiggle some more.

Inside the room, wolves tusselled. A great, grey beast gnawed on Rossi's expensive shoes. A chocolate brown animal snapped playfully at a slender black wolf. Instead, she planted her paws on the sill and howled.

"Is this… permanent?" Hotch asked.

"I don't know," JJ admitted. "If it is… um…"

Hotch was pretty sure, permanent or not, they were definitely buying leashes.


	47. November 16th: Haiku

**November 16** **th** **: Haiku**

 **.**

 _November 16_ _th_ _:_ _ **Bad**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Write something that you, as an author are bad at. Eg.: dialogue, action, scenery, comedy_

 **.**

 **Needle's Edge**

Slender line, sharp edge

Oblivion is easy

Coming back is not

 **Zugzwang**

She's gone, out of reach

What worth is knowledge, now?

He knows he can't win.

 **Mom**

Once bright eyes now dulled

He remembers her before

But she never does

 **100**

A father protects

His bloodied hands, no mercy

This last day just ends

 **Daddy**

He waits home alone

Picture book open hopefully

But the work comes first

 **Scratch**

The sly smell of sage

He sees them die, one by one

His team; his nightmare

 **Valhalla**

His smile cold and sharp

This fake life, she almost craves

Losing love to him

 **Lauren**

This last spring brought death

Buried at the beginning

But she won't just die

 **London Calls**

Coming home is hard

Changed too much to stay here

But first, one last dance

 **Family**

They're a team, always

Even when they're splintering

Even when they're gone

 **I'm Titling This for Word-Count**

Haikus are shit hard

Crap, I really can't do this

How many words now?


	48. November 17th: Valhalla

**November 17** **th** **: Valhalla**

 **.**

 _November 17_ _th_ _:_ _ **Villainous**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Every villain needs a tragic back story. ;D_

 **.**

 _You're too young to understand,_ Da always said, and Ian thought he might be right. But he wondered. Wondered why he was always alone, why they were always poor, why his Ma always dragged him away from the coppers with their batons and shiny boots when all he wanted was to pat the dun-coated horses saddled by their side.

They moved a lot. All over the country, each house colder than the last. He lay in bed, a mattress shoved against a wall near the kitchen stove—the only source of heat in a bitter Irish winter—and he thought of something different. Something other than this.

A friend, maybe.

Or power. The power to make the coppers look away before Ma ran first. The power to make Da stay home.

But, mostly a friend. He dreamed of a girl with dark hair and dark eyes and a smile that promised _magic_ , and he wanted.

One day, he'd meet her, his dream girl. He was absolutely sure.


	49. November 18th: Bird-Bones

**November 18** **th** **: Bird-Bones**

 **.**

 _November 18_ _th_ _:_ _ **Tough Choice**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– You decide today's topic: Ninja-wizards, smut, or toothpaste._

 **.**

Bird bones under a paper-thin skin. She traced his wrist, the flex of those bones within. Slid her hand around the narrow limb. Followed the line of the vein, up, up, up, to the crease of his elbow and the shadow of his past mistakes marring this moment.

A silent, hushed second. They were making a mess on her expensive sheets, the single light catching snapshots of this first time. Maybe the last. She wasn't sure; he was never inconsiderate, and she was rarely heartless. Making messes of the sheets, the bed, each other, but at least there was some purpose to this. Some single, clinging heartbeat. A noise, a look in his eye as he arched underneath her.

A smile.

After, she sat with her knees to her chest with a towel bunched under her to save what was left of her bedding, and he moved with an uncharacteristic relaxation to find a damp washcloth, a glass of water. Some small motions of care.

Never inconsiderate.


	50. November 19th: Fathers

**November 19** **th** **: Fathers**

 **.**

 _November 19th:_ _ **Tongue Lashing**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Hand out the most epic verbal smack-down you can manage._

 **.**

He raised his hand, brushing his knuckles against the smooth wood of the door. Hesitated.

Knocked. An uneven pattern. It would drive his son mad, he knew, but he'd never been one to encourage Spencer's oddities. Not like Diana, inspiring him to be _strange…_

"He's not there," said a cold voice, and William turned to find the agent who worked with his son standing there, hands slung in his pockets and expression sneering.

"I just—" William began.

"I don't give two fucks what you _just_ ," said the man. "You're _just_ going to turn around and walk right back out again. He doesn't need you waltzing back in just to leave him again as soon as it gets too _hard_."

"He's _my_ son."

The man looked at him strangely. "Depends who you ask," he replied. "Because, shit, even I've been more of a father to him than you _ever_ have. And William?"

William said nothing, silent and shaking. The man continued anyway.

"There's _nothing_ wrong with him."


	51. November 20th: Compromised

**November 20** **th** **: Compromised**

 **.**

 _November 20_ _th_ _:_ _ **Awkward**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Someone (who is NOT the MC's love interest) falls for your MC. Love potion? Pizza delivery person? The villain? Surprise us!_

 **.**

 _If I was thirty years younger_ , Dave thought wryly. This wasn't the first time this had happened in his career—shit, he'd been the one on the other side of the desk enough times. He knew how hard this was. Was sorry it was happening, and painfully aware there was no way to make this any less awkward for the red-faced agent.

"I've applied for a transfer to Domestic Trafficking," Ashley said miserably. "I acted unprofessionally. My place in this unit has been compromised as a result."

"You'll be missed," Dave said honestly, "but Agent Swann is excellent. You'll do fine there." There were things he _could_ say. _Don't take it personally. It will probably happen again._

 _You were drunk, I don't hold it against you._

But he didn't. Just wished her well and then she was gone. He thought about being young, reckless, rash enough to admit to a man almost forty years older that _I can't stop thinking about you._

It was a _little_ flattering.


	52. November 21st: Time

**November 21** **st** **: Time**

 **.**

 _November 21_ _st_ _:_ _ **War**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Whether it's galaxy-spanning or the toilet seat got left up again your MC has just accidentally started a war. Oopsies!_

 **.**

This was the absolute opposite of what he'd intended when his phone had buzzed with a message— _can we meet up? —_ and he'd gone to meet with the boy who wasn't a boy any longer.

Derek was going to _kill_ him.

Hank had come to him. Spencer had remembered holding him as a baby, some twenty-eight years ago and decided that, even if this started a war, he'd back his godson all the way.

"Dad," Hank said over dinner, and Spencer peered through the glasses that only stalled his failing vision. He'd made jokes about them, but hadn't actually told any of his family how much he'd lost. He wasn't a field agent anymore, so he'd been able to hide it. For now.

"I'm applying for the FBI academy," Hank declared firmly. "Uncle Spence supports me."

All eyes fell on him. He noted the fear in the Morgans' eyes, and said quietly, "He'll be a fine agent, Derek."

He would be.

But that didn't make this easier.


	53. November 22nd: Comfort

**November 22** **nd** **: Comfort**

 **.**

 _November 22_ _nd_ _:_ _ **Cute**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Focus on an adorable pet/object. (Babies will be given side-eye.)_

 **.**

Four men dead, no survivors, their murderer committing suicide by cop. Suicide by her.

She'd had to shoot him.

But that didn't stop her from running a bath that was too hot; sinking into it and contemplating sinking further, blaming the water for the wet on her face. Hating her weakness.

 _"_ _Mrrp_ ," said a voice in her ear, followed by a wet nose. " _Mrrrrow!"_

"Demanding little shit," she growled, looking at her stupid cat. There were bubbles on his nose. He swiped them off, green eyes wide and whiskers trembling. She swallowed hard as he pressed his head against her cheek and purred loudly. As close to a _you're strong enough to move past this_ as she was going to get.

Fuck it. Sergio wasn't going to tell anyone about her crying. She buried her face in his silky fur and bawled as much as she fucking needed to, until she felt raw and clean and _okay_.

"Love you," she mumbled to the cat, and he sneezed.


	54. November 23rd: Why?

**November 23** **rd** **: Why?**

 **.**

 _November 23_ _rd_ _:_ _ **Mystery**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Solve a mystery today... by making a new mystery._

 **.**

Emily Prentiss; a mystery he was determined to solve. And he was going to do that _his_ way, Rossi be damned, because the man only made things _more_ confusing.

 _Why is she_ _ **like**_ _this?_ he'd complained, as Emily, walking past him and tugged at his hair.

 _You missed a lot of elementary school, didn't you, kid?_ Rossi had replied. What did that mean?! So, Reid broke her behaviour down into parts to discern the sum of the whole.

 _Her smile_. A smile she _only_ gave him, a Spencer-smile, as silly as that sounded. And the smile was silly too, and a little warm.

 _The teasing_. Not mean? Emily was _never_ mean without reason, and he doubted she'd start by being mean to someone who she smiled at like _that_.

 _The touching_. Tiny touches, all the time, and every one left him breathless.

It all added up to one thing, he realized smugly. Emily was _flirting_. Ahah! For a moment, he was proud. Then he frowned.

 _But why?_


	55. November 24th: Death

**November 24** **th** **: Death**

 **.**

 _November 24_ _th_ _:_ _ **Cameo**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– A walk-on from someone completely unexpected. Possibly from out of universe._

 **.**

His life ended on the floor of Hankel's shack.

How strange it was, that single moment of falling. Like missing a step in the dark; the sensation of tipping forward into air where there should be solid ground. The same gut-dropping feeling of _fuck_ , except without any of the upwards panic to go with it. Instead, his body relaxed, the pain drained away, and he thought this might be freedom.

 _But my team._

Someone caught him. Bony fingers around his wrist slowed his tumble into the nothing void.

 _I can't die,_ he cried. _They'll blame themselves._

What will you do if you live? asked the someone. Why are you more worthy of life than others who have asked?

 _I'm not,_ Spencer thought, opening his eyes. _But I have to try._

And the someone smiled.

Back you go _,_ it said, and pushed him back down towards the pain and the fear. He went, gladly. We'll meet again.

Spencer would never remember meeting Death, but Death never forgot him.


	56. November 25th: Begging

**November 25** **th** **: Begging**

 **.**

 _November 25_ _th_ _:_ _ **Red Tape**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Forms, paperwork, slogging your way through regulations. Bureaucracy has caught up with your characters! Will they escape with minimal paper cuts, or will they die in a waiting room somewhere?_

 **.**

"We're going to die here," said Rossi. He looked to the ceiling. "If only I could see the sky one last time. The sun. Dance in the rain. Hold my wife—"

"You don't have a wife," Morgan retorted, lifting one stack and halving it again, trying to hide some away.

"I don't have a _current_ wife," Rossi corrected. Emily sucked on the end of her index finger where blood welled from a papercut. "We can rectify that. What do you say, Em? Seeing as we'll probably be trapped here until the end of time—"

"Finish that sentence, I dare you," Emily said. "Besides I'm almost done."

Rossi looked at the table that _groaned_ under the sheer weight of casefiles and field reports. "How?!"

Reid poked his head out. "I helped," he said cheerfully. "I like paperwork. This is fun, isn't it?"

 _I will not cave and stoop to Prentiss's level,_ thought Rossi firmly. _I will not…_

"I'll do anything," he begged. "Please!"

Reid looked smug.


	57. November 26th: Stuck

**November 26** **th** **: Stuck**

 **.**

 _November 26_ _th_ _:_ _ **Seahorse**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Image prompt! XD_

 **.**

Emily heaved in a breath that earned her a mouthful of salt-water, staggering slightly as the mud sucked at her feet. She'd lost a shoe, one of her nice ones that her mom had told her _never_ to get dirty, and well. They weren't so much dirty as they were gone forever, so there was that.

The horse tossed its head back. A real sea horse, stuck in the muck. She gripped the halter with gritty hands, whispering into that flicking ear.

 _Don't ever play in the marsh,_ her mom had warned her. _It's dangerous._ Emily didn't really care. If she hadn't, the tide would have come in, and then no more horse. Wasn't that more important than rules?

The horse heaved forward with a loud _here we go_ from the people around them. Escaped the mud with a sucking, squelching noise, and bolted for safe ground without even a thank you.

Emily grinned at everything and regretted absolutely nothing as the tide swirled around her legs.


	58. November 27th: Unlucky

**November 27** **th** **: Unlucky**

 **.**

 _November 27_ _th_ _:_ _ **Damage**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– MC is attacked! Who/what takes the damage for them? Or are they the saviour?_

 **.**

Hotch hated it when the bad guys got lucky. Every time one of his team was injured, he made sure they were safe and then took a step back. Found somewhere quiet, remote, and balled his fists and his heart until the shaking stopped and the desire to find the _bastard_ who'd dare hurt them faded.

Today, it was his turn.

No fault of his own. He did everything right. But they got lucky, and he went down. Tried to get up, his head splitting from the crowbar's blow. The man stepped overhead, raised the weapon again.

He thought of his son.

Something blurred and dark took the man down in a flail of limbs and a shouted _FBI_ , and Hotch tried to get up again because _JJ_. Closed his eyes.

Opened them again in a hospital bed with JJ next to him, her mouth swollen and split. "You're welcome," she said with a half-smile. "Duck next time, okay?"

There'd be a next time. There always was.


	59. November 28th: Obvious

**November 28** **th** **: Obvious**

 **.**

 _November 28_ _th_ _:_ _ **Elephant**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Do NOT talk about the elephant in the room._

 **.**

It wasn't half _obvious._ Morgan groaned at the two idiots totally _not_ eye-fucking each other across the table from him. If there was any more tension, their hair would stand on end.

"So, JJ," Emily said, her back to Reid and shoulder cocked towards him. "How's Henry?" JJ answered, her own eyebrows raised as she chewed on the straw from her drink. Emily leaned back, nodding, and pressed that shoulder against Reid's bicep. Reid visibly shivered, missed a beat in his conversation with Rossi and mumbled _pardon_? to catch up.

Reid glanced at her, blushing, and Morgan saw Rossi sigh. He opened his mouth to say something _Rossi-like_ , and Morgan almost tore a muscle lunging for his phone.

 _DON'T TALK ABOUT IT_ he texted frantically, waiting for the _bloop_. _We all know except them! Let THEM work it out!_

Rossi's phone beeped no less than eight times, every gaze locked on him, hands on their phones.

Every gaze except Reid's and Prentiss's, who looked at each other.


	60. November 29th: Aaron

**November 29** **th** **: Aaron**

 **.**

 _November 29_ _th_ _:_ _ **Shhhh**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Things take a turn for the weird. Today's genre is Surreal Horror. Dreamlike, disjointed, horrifying things happen._

 **.**

The stink of sage. _Too late._

He woke with the smell thick in his nose, his vision already blurring; his body disjointed. _No_ ¸ he thought, the world chuckling and pressing him back down into the hungry bed. _Not here. Not now._

 _Jack._

He struggled against himself, eyes flickering into view, shuttered, opened, shifted. A disjointed mouth moved, words tumbling from the gaping lips to crawl inside him, up his body, moving with clinging fingers and scratching, oily voices. They purred. A weight in his hand. Silver sharp, like a smile, and he held it close.

 _Game over, Aaron. Go to your son. Don't fight this._

His phone screamed with a voice like gravel falling. He stared at it. Standing now, looking down, when did he get up? The mouth and eyes pushed against him. Walked away.

 _Shhh. You'll obey me._

 _No,_ thought Hotch, and stopped. Remembered the man who'd saved his child. _I won't._

The smile slashed down and bit at pale skin.

 _I love you, Jack._


	61. November 30th: Doppelganger

**November 30** **th** **: Doppelganger**

 **.**

 _November 30_ _th_ _:_ _ **Double**_ _–_ _ **167 words**_ _– Someone is trying to pass themselves off as a main character. Who are they and will they get away with it?_

 **.**

Hotch stared into glassy hazel eyes. Despite his training, despite years working this job, some things still appalled him. He knew this was going to haunt him. Something to pop up sporadically in his dreams.

The little details chilled him. He knew the man, cuffed and shackled tightly, could see the goosebumps on his arms as he studied those tiny details. The narrow hands, still rust-red with the woman's blood. The sweater-vest over the purple shirt; both marked with the splashback from the fatal blow. The wide, giddy smile they'd faced when they'd burst in too late and found him standing gleefully over the body with his arms outstretched.

"Knew you wouldn't stop me," the man had said, and laughed and laughed. "Knew you _couldn't_ hurt me."

"Who are you?" Hotch asked coldly, and the man jerked against the cuffs. They were scraping his wrists.

"You know me," he said in Spencer's voice, and Hotch felt sick. "I'm Dr. Reid." A macabre smile replaced the familiar one. "And I _loved_ killing those girls. Does that scare you?"

Hotch walked away. Took a moment. Went to the room looking onto the interrogation. A man stood there alone, pale and shocked. "Don't take this personally, Reid," Hotch said gently, touching his agent's arm. "No one thinks this is your fault."

But he knew his words were falling on deaf ears.

None of them would ever forget this.


	62. December 1st: Flurry

**December 1** **st** **: Flurry**

 **.**

 _December 1st:_ _ **First Frost**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Winter just arrived and your character(s) are stuck outside in the cold._

 **.**

Snow flurried—sticky and melty, reforming into wet slush and dripping into clothes. Within minutes, they were shivering, hair white-tipped.

"Get the door open!" Emily shoved her hand into pockets of the parka that was probably chicer than it was practical.

"I'm trying," Morgan replied, fumbling for keys in his bag and coming up empty. The car mocked them, resolutely locked. "Damn!"

Reid was silent. Emily turned to him, noting his grin, the ice on his lashes, his nose pink.

"Why so cheerful?" she asked.

The smile widened. "It's beautiful," he said. "The snow..."

She laughed, but secretly she agreed.


	63. December 2nd: Boogers

**December 2** **nd** **: Boogers**

 **.**

 _December 2_ _nd_ _:_ _ **Put On**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- Nothing says the holiday season like wearing ugly sweaters! Or silly hats! Or maybe those pants Aunt Mayble made you out of potholders... ;D_

 **.**

Rather reluctantly, Hotch had agreed to Secret Santa.

He'd also allowed Garcia to organise it. In typical Garcia fashion, she'd gone above and beyond to make it…

Well. Fun.

"Home-made items only," she'd declared. Dave protested that he wasn't _handy_ —something Hotch 100% disagreed with, after some ten years of filing HR complaints about the man.

"Oh, I wonder who made me this," Dave said wryly, tugging the drawing out from the gift bag. _Merry Christmas Uncle Rossi,_ it said, along with Dave standing in a shower of ' _shoes because he likes shoes, doesn't he, Daddy?'_ Hotch knew it would be on his refrigerator before the night was out.

Morgan had made a surprisingly elegant wooden jewellery box for JJ. From Rossi, Morgan received a delicious beef-wine casserole. JJ gave Reid Christmas baubles made from corks and acorns. Reid _squeaked_ at them.

Emily's gift from Reid was unanimously voted the winner. A disgusting mix of purple and orange wool, she proudly pulled the oversized bobble-hat on. Splotches of green danced along the rim, that Reid declared were elves, but really just looked like—

"Your hat's got boogers on it," Jack said. "Gross."

"Awesome," Emily corrected, and wore it all night.


	64. December 3rd: Moonlight

**December 3** **rd** **: Moonlight**

 **.**

 _December 3_ _rd_ _:_ _ **Spike!**_ _-_ _ **500 words**_ _\- Oh no, someone has spiked the Eggnog! How terrible!_

 **.**

Morgan hovered over the eggnog, bottle tipping perilously over the bowl. "You are all scary, scary people who carry guns. And Reid can probably kill me with his brain—"

"I really can't—"

"—so I want you all to know that I am about to spike the eggnog." He tipped the bottle. "I am currently spiking the eggnog." A pause. "The eggnog has been spiked."

"Well, this party just got _partier_ ," Garcia cheered, bouncing over to the bowl and the man grinning goofily next to it. By JJ, the stereo hummed quietly, turned down when Rossi had proclaimed Morgan's music 'shite, shite, super-shite' and thrown an almond at it. Emily just watched, and wondered when she'd gotten old enough that _this_ was letting loose.

Reclined back against the window as cups were passed around, the dark night outside and snow threatening. "This is going to go terribly."

"Can't be more terrible than this," Rossi said. Emily exchanged a look with Reid, one that screamed, _just humour them so we can leave,_ and they both took a drink that was more bourbon than it was nog.

And it went _fine_.

"No karaoke!" JJ and Emily both begged, but the karaoke was relentless. Loud and raucous and _Morgan_ , Emily tried to weave away, ended up dancing awkwardly with Garcia as Hotch taught JJ to waltz. The level of the bowl dipped, the room got giddier, and Emily periodically checked for snow. Not because she liked snow. She _didn't._

Maybe a little.

"My turn!" howled someone, probably Garcia, Emily was busy staring at the eggnog carton and wondering what a 'nog' was. The music boomed, the thin strains of _Kiss Me_ floating into the kitchen. Emily laughed, alone in the room, leaving the eggnog and allowing herself this singular moment of—she'd never admit to it—drunken Christmas spirit, dancing in a giddy circle around the kitchen table as voices joined Garcia in chanting the lyrics. Every single one of them knew the words.

Even Hotch.

Emily laughed and looked to the window. White pressed against the glass. There was something glorious about being the first one to walk in snow, so she left the singing and the mystery of the nog and stumbled into the chill-white night.

She wasn't the first.

"Do you know the lyrics?" she called, slipping on the path. He caught her, mittens warm against her palms. Held her steady. "I'm Derek, damnit, drunk."

"Lyrics to what?" Reid asked. Snow in his hair. Silly snow. She brushed it out.

"The snow they're singing," she explained seriously. White patterning the darkened lawn. "Kiss Me." Reid blinked. "The song's name is Kiss Me," she clarified. He laughed. Shrill and sweet.

"Maybe," he murmured, and she didn't believe him. "Strike up the band and make the fireflies dance, silver moon's sparkling." He paused and chuckled. Deep chuckle. Warm, somehow. A warm noise. Continued with an arm around her back, whirling her into the snow. _Dancing. "_ So kiss me…"

She did.


	65. December 4th: Gluttony

**December 4** **th** **: Gluttony**

 **.**

 _December 4_ _th_ _:_ _ **Naughty**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Holiday treats shouldn't be messed with, and yet here we are._

 **.**

JJ leaned over, brushing her lips over her son's forehead. "Mama, I'm sick," he whined. Despite him _absolutely_ deserving it and not that sick at all, she's sympathetic. "Ate too many sweets."

"Yep," she told him. "And what did we learn?"

Henry pouted. "Don't sneak candy because we don't think the adult is watching," he replied. "Night, Mama."

She found her way to her other child huddled on the couch. "And what did _we_ learn?" she asked him, fighting a smile.

Spencer popped up, groaning. "If you find your godson eating all the candy," he said sadly, "don't join in."


	66. December 5th: Cost

**December 5** **th** **: Cost**

 **.**

 _December 5_ _th_ _:_ _ **Nice**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- An insanely kind gesture from someone unexpected._

 **.**

Reid counted again. The columns blurred, rows of calculations fading into an indistinct mess of chicken-scratch handwriting. Dropped the pen on the book, his head into his hands. His breath was damp, choked, tearing from his chest.

Hotch battled to ensure his team was allocated a salary that was at least the exorbitant cost of living in DC. He usually won. Not this year. Which was fine. Reid knew how to survive on very little.

Not that he'd ever admit how grateful he was that their food costs on cases were expensed. He scraped by. Normally. His stomach growled.

 _Final bill, Bennington Sanatorium. Final bill, Mountain View Hospital._

And no matter how much money he gave, they still wouldn't be able to save her.

His phone hummed. An email. From his mom's treatment centre… thanking him? He frowned, fumbling for his glasses, dialling.

All paid, backlog included.

Three hours later, he reluctantly texted a number he hadn't saved, but remembered anyway, and sat in silence waiting for a reply. Received it.

 _Should have come to me for help sooner. Call me to discuss future payments._

He didn't respond. What would he say?

Even saying _thanks Dad_ felt like a concession.


	67. December 6th: Try

**December 6** **th** **: Try**

 **.**

 _December 6_ _th_ _: December 6th:_ _ **Cozy**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Picture prompt_

 **.**

The fact that they were here because Mom was convinced the house had been bugged by the CIA again seemed… well, almost redundant. A dark thought hidden by sweeps of dark pines, the white-blue lake, the heaped snow. Spencer crouched on the bridge, peering down at the icy depths.

"Spence, it's time," Mom said.

"I can't," he mumbled, staring at the skates. He was going to _ruin_ her attempt to cling to being his mom…

She laughed, pulling him out of his worrying brain. "How do you know if you don't try?" she asked. "I won't let you fall, baby."


	68. December 7th: Crumbling

**December 7** **th** **: Candle**

 **.**

 _December 7_ _th_ _:_ _ **Gingerbad**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- Baking gingerbread cookies is harder than it looks._

 **.**

Jack watched him accusingly as the 'house' tumbled in on itself, candy lined walls crumbling. Hotch wondered if this was a metaphor. "Oops," he said weakly, trying to smile as Jack's head slid slowly down his arm to bump his chin on the table. "We'll make another, hey, Jack?" It was _gingerbread_ , for crying out loud. How could it be so hard?

"Mommy makes it better," Jack mumbled, face flushing. Hotch stared at him; at the boy who was hurting and didn't have any idea how to deal with that hurt. "Can Mommy make it?"

Hotch picked icing from his fingers. "No, Jack," he said, and swallowed every emotion that would only make this moment worse. "Mommy can't. But we can—"

Jack looked away. "I don't like gingerbread," he declared, and left Hotch alone with the shattered remains.

He cleaned up. Washed the table twice so no scent lingered to remind him how much he couldn't do this, then went to find his son. Found him asleep on his floor in a pile of pillows, his hand curled around a grubby unlit candle. A drawing underneath. A broken house, in brown crayon. And four words.

 _To Mommy. Please help?_


	69. December 8th: Boston

**December 8** **th** **: Boston**

 **.**

 _December 8_ _th_ _:_ _ **Whirl'd Peas**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- A disastrous miscommunication._

 **.**

The radio message said _safe to move in._

Gideon needed to talk to the bastard who'd sent that message about his definition of the word _safe_. Right after finding his team, who _had_ to be safe, _truly_ safe…

This couldn't be an end.

"Where's the team?" he shouted.

Silence.

Aaron stared at the newscast playing in the hushed Boston precinct. Dozens of people; not a sound.

From the interrogation room, Bale called his name. Sirens howled outside.

 _...It is unknown if anyone was inside at the time of the explosion, but FBI personnel were on scene when the blast detonated…_


	70. December 9th: Wonderland

**December 9** **th** **: Wonderland**

 **.**

 _December 9th:_ _ **Deck the Halls**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Put up some decorations today!_

 **.**

Dave supplied the location. Garcia, a table's worth of sweets in ever shape a child could imagine. Morgan brought wooden toys that he refused to admit where they'd come from.

Spencer brought the idea, and Emily brought the decorations.

Finally, it was done. The living room was a child's idea of Christmas, a tree taking up the entirety of one corner. And they waited.

A car drew up outside. Hotch's voice floated through, Jack's piping up alongside him. Confused.

Spencer slid his hand into Emily's. It had been a hard year… Haley, Foyet…

This was the least they could do.


	71. December 10th: Married

**December 10** **th** **: Married**

 **.**

 _December 10th:_ _ **400 words**_ _\- Mistletoe is a fantastic plot device for the holidays. Here, have a bushel!_

 **.**

When Spencer Reid was five-years-old, he married a girl named Annabelle Lee. Annabelle Lee liked books, princesses, the colour of mangos, and—most importantly—she also liked Spencer. Very much.

Christmas at pre-school was dull dull dull. His aide never let him read any of the books he wanted, stressing things like _socialization_ and _fun_ and _Christmas spirit_ , the latter of which Spencer was sure, even at five-point-nine, that there was no empirical evidence confirming the existence of. He told Annabelle Lee this.

"It does so," she said firmly, and she seemed sure enough he kind of believed her. "It hides in the decorations and comes out at night to bite you. And every decoration has a different spirit. Some make you _bored_." She glared at a gingerbread sticker on the sandpit nearby.

This was alarming. Spencer looked up at the mistletoe above and asked warily, "What does that one do?"

And Annabelle Lee told him, because she was ever the opportunist and, even at five- and-eight-months-old, she thought that Spencer was a bit cute; "That one makes you get married. Like this."

And kissed him.

Getting married, Spencer thought later, really wasn't as much a big deal as the books made it out to be. It felt very much like not being married, except a bit damper.

"Decorations suck," Emily Prentiss declared, at an age she wouldn't tell you because it was rude to ask, and also because she'd hated Christmas since her mom had begun entrusting it to the 'help'. "Christmas sucks, eggnog sucks, mistletoe sucks." She lobbed the mistletoe onto her desk, the two of them alone in the dim bullpen. Spencer had had the idea to 'jolly' the place up, mostly to annoy Morgan and also because he _loved_ Christmas. Emily had stayed to help because… well, he was a bit cute.

"Careful with that," Spencer Reid said absently, because even at twenty-nine-years-old, he hadn't forgotten his Annabelle Lee. "You'll annoy the Christmas spirits."

Emily stared at him. "The what?" she asked, deadpan, and he picked up the mistletoe.

"You know," he explained, badly, "the ones that make you get…" He paused. Actually, maybe he should have researched this a little bit more. "… married. Like this."

And with a smile and more than a little bit of Christmas mischievousness, he kissed her gently on the cheek.

Getting married, Emily thought, was rather nicer than advertised.


	72. December 11th: Dreaming

**December 11** **th** **: Dreaming**

 **.**

 _December 11_ _th_ _:_ _ **Indestructible**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Everyone hates fruitcake. I don't think this particular one is edible._

 **.**

"I think I… may have messed up." She scrunched her nose at the blackened fruitcake. "It's _chemistry_ , but with food. How can it be so hard?"

He nabbed a chunk to taste. The texture was impossible to discern. Frowning, he looked at the recipe book resting under her fingers, the words blurry. Absently said, "No one really likes fruitcake anyway." He smiled, giddy she was here.

He blinked. She faded.

"What about fruitcake?" Rossi asked, and Reid rocketed up from where he'd slumped over the table, wiping spit from his mouth.

"Nothing," he said, and turned back to the work.


	73. December 12th: Candle

**December 12** **th** **: Candle**

 **.**

 _December 12_ _th_ _: December 12th:_ _ **Yule Like It**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- Character A is absolutely convinced that Character B will like this surprise._

 **.**

Snow drifted down, scattering across the wood in a white puzzle pattern. Emily paused, swallowed something down that fought as it went, and stepped towards the hunched over figure in the blue-black peacoat.

"You alright?" she asked. His hands were bare, trembling. Fingers narrow and white against the gift he held, still tacky from the paper his gifter had inexpertly glued onto it. "You left in a hurry…"

Reid shifted, glancing at her from shadowed eyes. "It's a candle," he said finally, opening his palms. A candle worn down to a nub, staining his finger-tips ashy. "He… I need to go thank him. Properly."

Emily read the note. _To Spencer. I know you miss someone cos I miss someone too. This lets you talk to people you miss. Love Jack and Dad, Merry Christmas._

Footsteps on the porch behind them. "I'm sorry if I hurt you," said a quiet voice, and they looked around to find Jack shivering with the cold, eyes glassy. "I…"

"I love it," Reid cut him off, holding out his arms. The boy slipped into them, huddling down away from the snow. Emily slid her hand around him, curling her fingers over Reid's. "Thank you, Jack."


	74. December 13th: Hunting

**December 13** **th** **: Hunting**

 **.**

 _December 13_ _th_ _:_ _ **Over The River**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- And through the woods... where are we going again?_

 **.**

His boot caught a branch and he stumbled. Reaching down, trees with gnarled black branches whispered together; leafless branches rubbing. The metal of the flashlight in his hand was cold, even though his gloves, the snow underfoot refrozen into a slushy mess of shards of broken ice.

The forest was the silent kind of noisy, but it wasn't empty.

Reid kept walking, following the beam of light ahead until it paused. Morgan let him catch up, eyes asking _you good_? Reid nodded, scanning the surroundings. Someone moved ahead.

As one, they flicked their flashlights off and closed in, weapons ready.


	75. December 14th: Patience

**December 14** **th** **: Patience**

 **.**

 _December 14_ _th_ _:_ _ **Stop it!**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- Someone's enthusiasm for the holidays gets out of hand._

 **.**

"Can we put the Christmas tree up?" Henry asked in May. Oatmeal dribbling down his chin, hair still cocked up at the back from his pillow, he was bright-eyed, busy-tailed, seven-years-old, and absolutely old enough to remember that Christmas meant _presents_.

Damn.

"Not till December," JJ assured him with a smile, feeling thankful that was _months_ away.

In October, they packed away the pumpkins, rationed out the candy, and as soon as the pantry door swung shut, Henry said, "Mama, the Christmas tree…"

"It's not December," she scolded him, and received a pert, "Uncle Spence says Jesus's birthday might probably have been in October."

Uncle Spence was given a stern talking to, as well as half of the candy.

Two weeks before December, Henry began haunting the garage, eyes locked hungrily on the box containing decorations. One week before, he was banned from any mention of trees.

Three days before, he took to sighing loudly and carrying around a silver bauble JJ was _sure_ she'd never brought him.

One day before, JJ caved. She locked herself in her room, away from pleading eyes, and dialled a familiar number. "Hi, Spence," she said, hearing ominous footsteps coming towards her. "It's time."


	76. December 15th: Phallic

**December 15** **th** **: Phallic**

 **.**

 _December 15_ _th_ _: December 15th:_ _ **Secret Whatnow?**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- The Secret Santa gift exchange went wrong this year. So very wrong._

 **.**

"I'm concerned," Rossi said calmly, holding up his gift, "by how I managed to give the impression that edible underwear are at all something I'm into."

"I do _not_ recommend actually wearing them," Emily added, nibbling on hers. " _Trust_ me."

Garcia's satisfaction grew as JJ chuckled over a sensible candy top-hat, unlike the complete lewdness Spence's—

"I love mine," Spencer said. Garcia stared, stunned that he'd love anything quite so… _phallic_. Only to find him holding a book.

"That's Hotch's gift," she said, mind blanking with panic. "And if you have Hotch's gift, that means Hotch has—"

Oh god.


	77. December 16th: Logistics

**December 16** **th** **: Logistics**

 **.**

 _December 16_ _th_ _:_ _ **Excite Mint**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Include the line: "You don't need 500 candy canes!"_

 **.**

 _My team are adults,_ Hotch reminded himself, right as Morgan announced from the other side of the jet, "If my Army of Darkness is taking on your Army of _Christmas_ , you're gonna lose." _My team are highly skilled, professional adults…_

"Your Army of Darkness is going to run into considerable logistical problems," Reid was replying smugly. "I can order bulk supplies for _my_ army from the internet—what are you going to feed yours? Look. See?"

"Oh come on, you don't need five-hundred candy canes! Why do you even have that _bookmarked_?"

 _I love my team, I love my team…_


	78. December 17th: Trap

**December 17** **th** **: Trap**

 **.**

 _December 17_ _th_ _:_ _ **Winter Wonderland**_ _-_ _ **400 words**_ _\- No, the other kind of Wonderland. What surreal (possibly theoretical) rabbit hole do your characters fall down today?_

 **.**

Emily was pretty sure that, somewhere, she'd fucked up. Probably about the point she'd gone into the building, alone, without backup. Probably about the point she'd noted that she'd lost Reid in her mad dash after the unsub, desperate not to lose the one guy who could lead them to the missing children.

Probably about the point she walked right into a trap.

"Well, _fuck_ ," she said, noting the canister suspended above, noting the hissing spit of gas, noting her fingers fumbling numbly for her shirt to tug over her mouth, her earpiece crackling, the whisper of Reid's voice humming _Emily, where are you?_

Then, floor. Hi floor.

 _Hi, Emily_ , said the floor, and she blinked it away. Reached up to the ceiling to tug herself upright and pulled down the sky onto herself anyway. It fell; she winced away, shattering before it impacted on her body and swirling into snow that eddied and gusted against her.

Footsteps. Feet stepping? She shook her head, shook the snow with her, and the world tilted like she'd gathered it up in a globe and swirled it. The feet stepping became paws scuffing, and a rabbit in an FBI vest burst in, gun in paw. Wait.

"How are you holding your gun?" she asked the rabbit, who twitched his nose at her in confusion. "You don't have fingers. Thumbs. Fingers _or_ thumbs."

The rabbit looked up, spotted the hissing snake curled around the moon above. "Fuck," it said, which was a surprise because Emily didn't think rabbits cussed, as a general rule. "Agent down, requesting backup. Medic needed."

The rabbit had soft paws. Soft paws gentle on her throat, her face, her arms. Emily squeaked as those paws wrapped around her back, lifted her, lifted the world with it. Carried her. Her head wasn't exactly attached anymore, so she let it loll against his fluffy throat. Curled her nose against him, smiled into the patter of his bunny heart. When she looked around, they weren't on the ground anymore, the rabbit lifting her easily away from the snow and the snake into a blue-dark starry void. It was stunning. She may have told him that. Him? How could she _tell_? He was wearing pants, after all. It seemed very important she find out.

"Are you a boy or a girl rabbit?" she asked him, hearing him squeak again, and then she passed out.


	79. December 18th: Falling

**December 18** **th** **: Falling**

 **GUYS I DID IT. I POSTED A MILLION WORDS OF FIC THIS YEAR ALONE. I BROKE MY GOAL! :D I AM GODDAMN EXCITED!**

 **.**

 _December 18_ _th_ _:_ _ **Piece of Joy**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Character finds an object that brings them a memory of joy._

 **.**

It was an old phone in a drawer, probably completely dead. He plugged it in anyway, finding a video folder labelled _Jack_ and pressing play. A baby staggered towards a woman's voice. No Dad.

"Work," he said, half-smiling because _duh_ , flicking to the next. Another baby-him, about to fall. Chubby legs stumbled. The camera dipped as the woman ( _Mom_ ) shouted, "Jack!"

Arms caught him before he fell. "Careful now," Dad said, smiling like he didn't anymore. "I can't always catch you, buddy."

"You always have so far…" Jack slipped it into his pocket to show Dad, when he got home.


	80. December 19th: Rudolph

**December 19** **th** **: Rudolph**

 **.**

 _December 19th:_ _ **BAS**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- Bad Ass Santa has had it up to here! Cue fight scene! Is one of your characters dressed up as Santa? Do they meet Santa? Whoever it is, things are going down!_

 **.**

David Rossi considered many things in that moment, the top one of which was this: he was about to die.

While dressed as Santa.

By a reindeer.

"FBI, weapon down!" he tried to yell, tried being the operative word there seeing as Rudolph the Serial Arsonist had just pistol whipped the jolly right out of him, and he was currently on his back wheezing in the dust. While Rudolph cocked that gun at just the right angle to continue blowing the jolly right out of him and hesitated on the trigger.

Worst. Christmas. Ever.

"FBIaargh!" yelled someone else, and a blur of green and gawky burst past and knocked the costumed unsub on his arse. Rossi coughed, sat up, and thanked God that they went undercover in pairs. He considered snapping a photo of the elf-Reid handcuffing Rudolph, but considered now probably wasn't the time. Instead, he staggered to his feet, ignored the whirling room, and kicked the gun out of reach so that poor Reid didn't end up ruining the lovely green tights Garcia had squeezed him into. Yeah, no photos… he wouldn't want to be rude.

He was totally buying him a damn big book for Christmas though.


	81. December 20th: Wrapt

**December 20** **th** **: Wrapt**

 **.**

 _December 20_ _th_ _:_ _ **All Wrapped Up**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Wrapping presents is... difficult._

 **.**

"It's not bedtime," Henry says, staring at Emily sleeping on the couch. Uncle Spencer _hmm_ s from his spot on the floor, looking at her all funny. "Michael's not even asleep yet, and he's a _baby_."

"Wrapping presents is exhausting," Uncle Spence replies. Henry scowls. It's not. It's _fun_. And Uncle Spencer is _awful_ at it… without Emily, they're gonna be all wonky.

"Hey, Henry," Uncle Spence whispers, pulling the wrapping paper out and holding it across Emily's tummy. "Get me the sticky tape."

"This is _naughty_ ," Henry scolds, grinning anyway. Emily's pretty wonky when they finish, but she looks _awesome_.


	82. December 21st: Solstice

**December 21** **st** **: Solstice**

 **.**

 _December 21_ _st_ _:_ _ **Longest Night**_ _-_ _ **300 words**_ _\- Happy Solstice! Light the Yule Log, stay up late, make some wishes for the new year, play cards, or tell ghost stories in the flickering firelight._

 **.**

It's a cheeky _I'm thinking about you_ text that's plaintive and pathetic and really just hopeful. She doesn't expect a reply, because he hasn't forgiven her for dying yet, let alone for coming back.

But reply he does.

 _Where are you?_

 _Home alone_ , she tells him. _Longest night of the year, getting drunk by a fire I can't fucking light. Happy fucking Holidays._

Okay, so it's a lot pathetic.

There's a knock on her door two hours later. She opens it to snow in his hair and a flush on his cheeks, as he quietly offers her a bottle of her favourite scotch and brushes by her on the way inside. "There," he says, kicking his shoes off in the hall and shrugging out of a heavy coat that hides his slim body. "Not alone anymore." The smile she gets is shy and hints at something secret. It hints that _I've been lonely too._

He helps her light the fire. She knows how to do it, too many drinks in to do it right. As the longest night falls outside, they don't get up to turn on the light. They don't even get up for another glass. Just sit quietly by that flickering fire, drinking from the bottle and contemplating their individual loneliness.

They're both drunk when she closes the gap between them. They're both drunk when he splays his hands—they're wide and warm and annoyingly bony—against her spine and lowers her onto the smoke-warm rug.

"The solstice celebrates rebirth," he murmurs against her mouth, flush to her side with his heart hammering a pattern that's not lonely at all. "And reversal."

Fingers on her shirt buttons, on his tie, on her hips. "How about forgiveness?" she asks, and kisses him.

It's the longest night, over far too soon.


	83. December 22nd: Beginning

**December 22** **nd** **: Beginning**

 **.**

 _December 22_ _nd_ _:_ _ **Toy Joy – 100 words**_ _– Character receives the best gift ever!_

 **.**

"Don't you like it?"

"Honey, don't push him…" Diana murmured.

"Why? I just want to know if he likes his gift." William was frowning.

Spencer looked again at the action figures. "They're great Dad, thanks…"

William sighed. No one said a thing. Then he laughed. "Your face," he chuckled, and dug into his bag, sliding another present across the table. Square and _thick_. Spencer opened it cautiously. A textbook: _Crime in a Psychological Context_. "Psychology seems like something you'd enjoy… and kids like weird crimes. Just, ah, if you get freaked out …"

"Thanks, Dad," Spencer breathed, already eight pages in.


	84. December 23rd: Australia

**December 23** **rd** **: Australia**

 **.**

 _December 23_ _rd_ _:_ _ **Warmth**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- There is another hemisphere, you know. ;) Kick back on the beach and relax... or marvel at some jet-ski-ing Santas._

 **.**

There was nothing white about Australia at Christmastime. Not her skin, now a peeling lobster red, not her outfits, which were light and thin and still did nothing to keep her cool, and certainly not the goddamn weather. The weather was yellow. Hot and baking and turning everything bleached gold and harsh.

The beaches though?

They were stunning.

Sitting on a pier with her legs hanging over, she watched as a shorts-wearing Santa in a bright red tank top and false beard chased a bunch of children up the sand, all of them crashing into the water with loud squeals. She laughed.

"Change is as good as a holiday," he murmured, coming up behind her and joining her on her salt-laced seat. She examined him. He looked… good. Tanned. Odd, in a light t-shirt and shorts. The lines on his face seemed less.

"You're picking up the accent," she murmured, handing him a newspaper clipping. He probably knew. She didn't care. She wanted to be here for this. "Australia suits you."

"Jack loves it," was all he said in reply, skimming the headline. _Mr. Scratch caught: the nightmare over._ Her team—their team—had done well. Then he looked at her. She wondered what came next, and knew it wouldn't be _I'm coming home._ "Stay for Christmas?" he asked, and she laughed and said _yes._


	85. December 24th: Indispensable

**December 24** **th** **: Indispensable**

 **.**

 _December 24_ _th_ _:_ _ **On High**_ _-_ _ **300 words**_ _\- Merry Christmas! Time for an Angel AU!_

 **.**

David loved his job. He loved the wings, he loved the magic, he even didn't mind the whole glow-in-the-dark aspect.

In fact, his job was almost perfect. Almost.

It wasn't that he was bad at his job, quite the contrary. He was so damn good at his job that he got all the hard-cases. The accident-prone. The bullet magnets. The drunks, the unlucky, the jinxed.

The, as he now thought of them, Spencer Reids.

The first _glorious_ day he was assigned to Spencer Reid, the kid was running from bullies. Doing really well at that, David noted as he flew alongside as an incorporeal notion of himself, until he sprinted out in front of a station wagon.

Not one to lose a charge on the first day, David gave him a bit more of a shove and managed to at _least_ improve his prospects. A broken arm instead of a cracked skull, that was something. Even if it required surgery.

Even if that surgery was where they all discovered that his new charge had a life-threatening allergy to the post-surgery medication they'd put him on.

After they'd put him on it.

"You," David commented, sprawling in the chair next to the sleeping pre-teen and examining his scuffed up face and his ridiculous hair and the lips-cheeks combo that was going to _ruin_ hearts when he got older—if he got older—, "are going to be a real pain in my arse to keep alive, aren't you?"

Spencer, busy sleeping, didn't answer. David rustled his wings angrily and settled in to wait. Surely, _surely_ , he'd only have to work this job for a little while… just until the kid achieved whatever it was the higher ups wanted him to do and became 'dispensable' again.

That couldn't take that long, right?


	86. December 25th: Dawn

**December 25** **th** **: Dawn**

 **.**

 _December 25_ _th_ _:_ _ **Light**_ _-_ _ **300 words**_ _\- Happy Hanukkah! Light up the night tonight._

 **.**

A week long so far, no leads to count on, and to top it all off… well, JJ had spent her Christmas Eve in this pokey hotel room trying to stop Henry from crying over facetime because 'Santa won't come if you're not here, Mama.'

It was bullshit, they were helpless against this asshole unsub, and she just wanted to…

Sleep. Forget. Pretend it wasn't Christmas and everywhere was festive except here; except here in this tiny town with a pall of terror hanging overhead and the knowledge that he planned to strike again today.

They couldn't stop him.

Despite this, sleep did come and _god_ did she need it. She woke to every choke of the battered radiator against the wall, but it was something.

What woke her for good wasn't the radiator or the fear or even Santa.

It was Emily.

"Em?" JJ hissed, sitting upright and tugging her loose tee down over flannel pants with ducks on. "The fuck?"

Emily's reply was a finger to her lip and a hand around hers, leading her out and down the hall. Padding in pyjamas out into the silent Christmas morning.

A crowd surrounded them. Fear hit her first. Fear he'd struck.

Then wonder.

The crowd was aglow, a candle in every pair of cupped hands. Without a word, candles were passed to them, as they joined the awed shape of Reid and Rossi standing together. Hotch watched from the doorway, expressionless.

"What are they doing?" JJ asked, shivering. Reid slipped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his warm embrace. Emily huddled against her other side.

"Showing they can't be broken," Reid said simply. "That fear won't stop them celebrating."

The night was silent, but the snow glowed with one-hundred guttering flames.

That was how they welcomed dawn.


	87. December 26th: Hell

**December 26** **th** **: Hell**

 **.**

 _December 26_ _th_ _:_ _ **Together**_ _-_ _ **300 words**_ _\- Joyous Kwanza! Unity is your theme today. :)_

 **.**

The Bureau's break-room was well-lit, warm, and—most importantly—had a working coffee machine. On a night like this, with cold winds blasting their promise of snow to come against the double-glazed windows, it was probably the only thing keeping them even remotely sane.

"Why are we doing this again?" Rossi said, his eyes red-raw and facial hair almost bordering scruffy. Taking up the entire couch with his socked feet resting on one end and his back on the other, he was liberally covered in teetering piles of cases.

JJ looked up, hunched over at the table next to Reid, both working on the most bureaucratically nightmarish paperwork. "Because Hotch is stressed and overworked and he's looking positively _drained_ ," she said, rubbing her eyes.

"If we do it, he doesn't have to," Emily added from her spot on the floor, leaning against Morgan's side.

One night of hell to keep Hotch sane. That was worth it, right?

When Hotch went to his office that morning, the weight of everything he had to do hanging heavy on his shoulders, his desk was empty. So was JJ's.

And Rossi's.

His team were in the break-room. He walked in there, the sun not even up yet, and found the paperwork in one great stack in the centre of the rug, all complete, with Morgan and Emily curled around it and against each other like protective mama cats. Rossi snored on the couch, a blank casefile over his nose.

At the table, Reid was sprawled with his arms thrown out and mouth slightly open. JJ had leaned against him at some point during the night, huddled into his chest with her hands cushioning her cheek.

Hotch blinked. Swallowed something heavy and complex down before it could betray him.

Then he went to get blankets.


	88. December 27th: Engineering

**December 27** **th** **: Engineering**

 **.**

 _December 27_ _th_ _:_ _ **Some Assembly Required**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- There's always a gift that just doesn't go together right._

 **.**

"We are trained professionals," Rossi growled. "Elites. We've saved countless lives, put criminals away. Practically wrote the handbooks on hostage negotiation. _Actually_ wrote the profiling handbooks."

"I don't see how hostage negotiation is going to help," Hotch cut in. "Maybe we should call Reid… he does have a doctorate in engineering…"

"And!" Rossi bellowed. "We carry guns!"

"You planning on shooting the rocking horse?" Prentiss asked, reading the instructions. "I'm voting we call Reid—"

"WE WILL NOT BE BEATEN," Rossi hollered, hunkering back over what would one day be a rocking horse.

Hotch sighed, and waited for that day.


	89. December 28th: Revenge

**December 28** **th** **: Revenge**

 **.**

 _December 28_ _th_ _:_ _ **And to All a Good Night**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- The holidays are exhausting, time for a nap._

 **.**

"This is payback for the wrapping paper," Emily muttered, resisting the urge to cackle with glee. The red and gold tinsel was tight in her hands as she wove it gently around the two sleeping men on the couch. Morgan snuffled once and she froze. She _really_ didn't want to explain that he was an innocent bystander in a war Reid had begun weeks ago. But he settled, easing back into the couch with Reid's head pillowed on his chest and snoring gently. It was almost… adorable.

But this was _war_. Tinsel done, Emily reached for the glitter.

No mercy.


	90. December 29th: Humdrum

**December 29** **th** **: Humdrum**

 **.**

 _December 29_ _th_ _:_ _ **Silent Night**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- Just a couple of characters and the hush of freshly fallen snow._

 **.**

She slipped away from the ball. It was some FBI gala bullshit, filled with people in fancy clothes and fancy shoes drinking wine that was older than her and talking about crap that didn't matter. Hotch looked at home in his suit, almost at home in the company. Morgan looked awkward and bored. Rossi just looked _bored_. JJ had managed to get out of this hell.

Reid was… nowhere to be seen, and she almost went to look for a library.

Snow had fallen while they'd danced to humdrum music, rolling their eyes at each other and trying not to laugh out loud. It crunched under her feet, more a feeling than an actual audible sound, and she laughed and felt a little tipsy with the cold nipping at bare shoulder. The hem of her over-priced dress turned navy blue with wet, her arms rippling, and she ignored all this and laughed again, whirling in place just to feel the snow shift under her heels.

He was standing behind her, watching her with his cheeks flushed pink and his eyes dark. Snow in his hair, rakishly curled over those eyes. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice hoarse in the silence.

"Making a mess of myself," she replied pertly. "Dancing alone."

The snow began to fall again. He looked up, opened his mouth to let a flake land on the pink flick of a tongue, and then asked her, "Dance with me?" instead of saying something stupid and logical like _there's no music._

He slipped into a snowdrift ten seconds in, dragging her down with him. She didn't mind, because he made up for it with warm hands and a warmer mouth.

They didn't go back to the ball.


	91. December 30th: 2016

**December 30** **th** **: 2016**

 **.**

 _December 30_ _th_ _:_ _ **Reflection**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- The year is coming to a close. What's a character's favourite memory from their last year?_

 **.**

In the five minutes before midnight, each of them fell quiet. Champagne bubbled, expressions turned inward, and they reflected on some time past, faded memories.

It had been a hard year. A rough year.

Like any of their years.

Reid thought of Hank. A baby bearing his name, family in every way that mattered.

Emily thought of home. JJ, of her sons growing every day. Rossi remembered a grandson's arms curled around him. Luke, of new beginnings.

Hotch wasn't there. But they all knew he was remembering them.

And they lifted their glasses to him as the clock struck twelve.


	92. December 31st: Masquerade

**December 31** **st** **: Masquerade**

 **.**

 _December 31_ _st:_ _:_ _ **Taking Time**_ _-_ _ **500 words**_ _\- Happy New Years! Just as the year is about to roll over, the villains steal centre stage. Literally. They take it._

 **.**

 _Separate once you're inside, but keep in sight of one another,_ Hotch had informed them sternly. She'd hummed _yes, sir,_ and rolled her eyes at him when he wasn't looking. It really wasn't going to be that simple.

Hunting down an unsub in a crowded ballroom was one thing; doing it on New Year's Eve? Everyone was drunk, everyone was hugging, everyone was touchy. Emily had had five different people tell her she was beautiful— _understandable_ , she thought smugly, catching sight of the absolutely stunning gown Garcia had sourced. It clung in all the right places, midnight blue shimmering into black and perfectly matching her delicately filigreed masquerade mask.

Reid kept getting offers to dance, and that was understandable too. The blue-silver waistcoat over a white shirt was eye-catching enough—even the light black half-cape hanging from one shoulder didn't look as ridiculous at it _should_ have. As ridiculous as she'd expected when Morgan had dragged it out of pile of potential outfits and almost died laughing at it.

And don't even get her started on the white mask that obscured the right side of his face and yet hid _nothing_ , instead emphasizing the sharp cheekbones and the curl of his lips.

 _Very pretty,_ she'd teased, and tweaked the cape straight. _You'll be the belle of the ball._ But inside, she'd been silently planning just how to perhaps… _borrow_ the outfit. For later activities.

Ahem.

Midnight ticked closer and they still hadn't found the woman they were looking for. Emily was antsy, Reid was getting tetchy, and neither wanted to ring in the New Year in a crowd of drunken strangers holding lukewarm flutes of pink lemonade—Reid's non-alcoholic choice, always oddly excited to consume anything labelled 'fairy-floss flavoured'.

Emily glanced at the clock as the music fell silent and people began chanting in unison, pairing off. She groaned, looking around, no sign of Reid. Another turn around as the crowd hummed _three_ , and she found him.

 _Reid has the target, he has the target, he's moving out_ , Morgan chattered into her ear, and she moved swiftly towards the sight of her partner leading a gowned and masked woman to the side-door with his arm through hers and one hand resting on her spine.

Three steps away from them, Reid glanced at her as the crowded roared _Happy New Year!_ The woman in his arms whirled, grabbed him by his stupid cape, and tugged him down into a kiss that was hungry, rough, and—judging by his startled slap of his hands at his throat—slightly deoxygenated.

Emily sighed, waiting until he'd managed to tug away, his mouth pink-red and mask askew, before walking up to twist the woman's arm behind her back. "Stupid," she growled, and twisted just the _tiniest_ bit harder. "Let's call that resisting arrest, shall we?"

"He was hardly resisting, sugar," the bitch purred back with a capacious wink.

Emily smacked her head on the roof of the police cruiser as she poured her in. _Oops._


	93. March 1st: Clock

**March 1** **st** **: Clock**

 **.**

 _March 1st:_ _ **Flickering**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- A dim room. A singular, flickering light. Maniacal laughter comes from the shadows._

 **.**

 _Tick tock_ whispered the clock. Jack fancied there were other words hidden in that split-second jump between tick and tock. Words like _I'm here, hello, can't you see me?_

He eyed his bedroom's flickering nightlight. His fingers scrunched the sheets. He closed his eyes, counted the ticks, counted the following tocks, and then opened his mouth to breathe and giggled instead. A damp, worried giggle.

A damp, worried giggle that slipped into a whimper as the clock paused and stopped. Waited. Silence.

Jack shrieked and cried _Dad, help_! He wasn't afraid, because he knew his dad would come.

He did.


	94. March 2nd: Leave

**March 2** **nd** **: Leave**

 **.**

 _March 2nd:_ _ **Towering**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- A character gets provoked, the result is a towering rage!_

 **.**

It was a split second action. One moment of supreme stupidity from the man who'd been trying every iota of patience they possessed for the past three days. _Must be hard to get work done with those around,_ the detective had murmured, just outside of easy earshot, veering his gaze away from JJ and Prentiss. Rossi twitched but said nothing. Hotch wouldn't thank him for ruffling feathers.

Morgan got a raised eyebrow and a smirk. Garcia, when she video-linked in, was the subject of a wave of titters spreading with him at the centre. Rossi could see Hotch breathing carefully and waited for the inevitable fallout.

When the man had coughed out a word that sounded _almost_ like it could have been _fag_ as Reid moved past, pausing and frowning as he tried to parse the muttered sound, they all froze. JJ's head snapped around, Prentiss's hand darting alarmingly towards her hip.

Hotch stood. And very, _very_ calmly, said, "Detective Dimmer, may I see you alone?"

The door shut softly behind them. The sergeant joined them five minutes later.

An hour after, Hotch emerged. Alone.

"Detective Dimmer has decided to take leave," he said blandly, nodding at Reid. "Coffee, anyone?"


	95. March 3rd: Hiding

**March 3** **rd** **: Hiding**

 **.**

 _March 3rd:_ _ **Stalk**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Oh, don't mind the person outside your window, character. They're just mad about you!_

 **.**

The last three months had been quiet. Wonderfully quiet. Her new home was secluded, private. It almost felt like she could relax. To be excited about things again without fear.

She heard her phone _bzzt_ excitedly on the counter. The screen was lit up— _private number calling_.

"Hi, Spence," Maeve said, heart skipping a little expecting his throaty voice, and glanced at the window. Open for a breeze. She'd gotten negligent.

Someone shifted in the window across the alley, darting out of view. And from the other end of the line, harsh breathing.

It wasn't Spence.

And she wasn't safe.


	96. March 4th: Wonderland

**March 4** **th** **: Wonderland**

 **.**

 _March 4th:_ _ **Awry**_ _-_ _ **Super Saturday word count**_ _\- - pay an escalation cost for each add-on._

 ** _400 words_** _\- Everything has gone slightly wrong._

 ** _\+ 200 words_** _\- One of your characters needs to clean things up._

 ** _\+ 200 words_** _\- The mood today is a touch manic, but we're not in a panic, just a bit frantic._

 ** _\+ 200 words_** _\- Unfortunately this may not be as easy as it seems. Or is it?_

 **.**

 ** _(carries on from chapter 78)_**

It had all gone so _wrong._ And it was all _Prentiss's_ fault.

The earpiece crackled, spat, and his partner's voice dropped out with a gasp. He repeated his furious request, fear sparking hot and manic— _Emily, where_ _ **are**_ _you?—_ and charged into the building after her. Alone. No backup. Hotch was going to be _livid_ with them.

But the earpiece was silent. "Emily?" he repeated, voice cracking. Gun in hand, vest tight around his heaving chest, he slipped through darkened room after room and barely took the chance to clear each one to the properly mandated FBI protocols they'd all had drilled into them by stern-faced instructors.

 _Don't enter alone,_ they'd said, and he'd never been more so. _Don't lose your partner_ —but she'd never been more lost before. _Don't break contact with your handlers,_ and he slipped his earpiece out to cut off Hotch's sharp, "Reid? Report. Where's Prentiss?"

They couldn't fire them both. They _wouldn't_ fire them both. Reid was worth too much to them, so if he screwed this up just as much, they were both safe. He sucked in air around his teeth with an almost audible whistle and hoped they'd both get the chance to be punished for this. Paperwork for their lives.

Silence settled around him as he stalked down a spiralling stairway. Silence broken by the tap of his heels, the hiss of his breathing, the hiss of…

Something else.

He tensed. Pressed back against the concrete wall behind him. Wanted to shout for Emily but his throat was tightening, the atmosphere around him cold and chilling and sharply metallic. Frowning, he ran his tongue on his teeth. Organizing and filing away the information that split-second behaviour gave him. The dark stairwell became unimportant, as did the almost silence, as did the earpiece chattering in his trouser pocket. He tasted it again and then swore loudly—it echoed down the stairwell—and began to run. Holding his breath.

Gassed. The air was gassed. And he was sprinting right into the heart of it.

Emily was right in the heart of it.

He ran and the stairs wound and wound and eventually tried to wind away from him. "Nope," he told them, taking a single quick breath, and felt his eyes beginning to tear from the effort. But he had to hold on, because Emily was here and needed him. Slipping the earpiece back on, he reported in grimly: "Hotch, there's an unknown airborne substance. Hallucinogenic effects, lethality unknown."

"What?" Hotch barked, and Reid heard wheels squeal. "Don't go in there, Reid. Stand down. We're coming."

"I'm already in," Reid said quietly, stepping down into a room where Emily stood staring at him. The walls wavered. He blinked the wavering away so the ground tried to throw him down instead.

"How are you holding your gun?" Emily asked, her normally sharp voice slurred and eyes unfocused. Reid looked up and saw the canister above. "You don't have fingers. Thumbs. Fingers _or_ thumbs."

"Fuck," he said, and Hotch replied with something indiscernible through the rushing in his brain. Brain misfiring, neurons scattering, thoughts fragmenting. His neurological system being fractured as it absorbed the gas. "Agent down, requesting backup. Medic needed." And then he dropped his hand, dropped Hotch with it, maybe his gun, and walked into the wavering room with his partner in the middle of it. Because he needed to.

"Hold your breath," he told her, closing his eyes as he brought his hand to her throat. Pulse hammering. His hands knew what they touched, it was his eyes that were delivering false sensory information to his brain. Emily didn't respond, just swayed into his arms, letting her head loll grossly against his throat. He sagged under her weight, catching her as she fell. "Emily? Em? I have to pick you up, okay? We have to get out of here. Keep talking to me, please."

But she slotted her mouth against his shoulder and just mumbled incoherently in reply, eyes locked vacantly on his. Something in his gut rebelled at that sight, before he closed his eyes again because her face was blurring and twisting and become grotesque.

And he picked her up. Arm under her knees, another around her back, and he cradled her close. She was surprisingly light, squeaking with surprise at the sudden lift. Surprisingly light and horrifyingly limp, a dead weight.

"Keep talking to me," he begged her, and opened his eyes to find the exit. There. Up the giggling staircase. Fuck. He felt sick, disorientated, itchy all over. His breathing rasped and he couldn't carry her and hold his breath. Stumbling forward, he clung to reality and her body and hoped for something else other than dying here. "Em, keep talking."

"You're so stunning," she mumbled, and his heart skipped until: "Are you a boy rabbit or a girl rabbit?" she said next, and he stumbled forward a little more, caught his foot on a step, and went tumbling down the rabbit-hole into oblivion. And with him, she fell, her arms around his neck and her eyes everywhere.

He woke to being carried.

"'mily?" he managed, chewing out the words around a sucking pressure on his mouth. "My 'mily."

"She's okay, Reid," said a deep, humming voice. Reid giggled as his bones rattled with it. Nice voice. "Come on, man. Hang in there. You're both okay."

Head rolled to the side and Reid looked at Wonderland and saw Emily. There, on her own white bed, carried by her own two men. Blue gloves, blue hands. Pale. Pale with her dark hair framing her face, like a fairy-tale.

"She's stunning," he told the voice seriously, "so, so stunning…"

"Yeah, and she thinks you're a rabbit right now," the voice replied.

"I'd be a rabbit for her," Reid promised, closing his eyes. "Whatever she wants… tell her that…."

"Tell her yourself," said the voice, and then, "JJ, here. He's out of it. How is Emily?"

 _Safe,_ replied Reid, and slept soundly.


	97. March 5th: Monday

**March 5** **th** **: Monday**

 **.**

 _March 5th:_ _ **Delusion**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- I swear it wasn't like this yesterday..._

 **.**

It was almost unnoticeable at first. A small slip.

"Where is your essay?" she asked Spencer over the dinner table, glancing to the centre where her clever, wonderful son would lay out his assignments for her to analyse over their meal. But today, complex equations could be seen on the notepad he'd left there.

His fork scraped as he looked at her, smiling curiously. "It's Monday?" he said. "Essays are Thursday, Mom."

"Of course," she replied calmly, hand trembling on the table.

Spencer giggled and went back to his food, seven years old and with no idea what was coming.


	98. March 6th: Fratricide

**March 6** **th** **: Fratricide**

 **.**

 _March 6th:_ _ **Ophelia**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- A pretty, young character plagued by visions driving them mad, being adorable... and occasionally committing atrocious acts of violence._

 **.**

They'd sent JJ because she was young, motherly, unassuming. A calming presence. Spencer was with her if needed but _only_ if needed, citing the likelihood of sexual abuse in the victims recovered.

Five children, of varying ages, found locked within the home of a deranged serial murderer turned spree killer when his wife had passed away. None of them had seen the world in two years. None trusted anyone but their incarcerated father. None were talking.

One of them had killed their youngest sibling for no apparent reason before the authorities had realized there were children locked in the home. Just because. JJ felt ill. But she refused to shy away from offering them the help they clearly needed.

"Hi, I'm Jennifer," she said to the youngest remaining sibling, a girl with blue eyes and flushed cheeks. Dressed neatly with her hands folded in her lap.

"Hello, Jennifer," said the girl, and giggled. Curled her knees close and cocked her head. "Are you here to ask me questions too?"

"I am," JJ said gently. "Do you know what about?"

Emma blinked slowly, and nodded. "Yes," she said. "It's about Lacy dying. I know _all_ about it."

And she smiled again.


	99. March 7th: Man-flu

**March 7** **th** **: Man-flu**

 **.**

 _March 7th:_ _ **Miffed**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Image prompt_

 **.**

Spencer was sulking. Emily wanted to be mad at him for that, but seeing him in his bathrobe and bare feet, snuggled up on the couch like a puppy…

"I'm sorry I told you that you're a baby," she said, walking in and looking at him. He sniffled. On the tail end of the cold he was milking. Even geniuses could get man-flu, apparently. "And I'm sorry I teased you for sneezing so weirdly."

He relented. "Okay," he said. The sulking face vanished, replaced with a flu-y kind of smile. "Hug it out?"

"Fine," she grumbled, and cuddled him tight.


	100. March 8th: Scarf

**March 8** **th** **: Scarf**

 **.**

 _March 8th:_ _ **Deeply**_ _-_ _ **300 words**_ _\- Character is truly, madly, deeply in love._

 **.**

She'd never seen him like this. JJ leaned close, watching Spence as his eyes widened and he looked up at Emily. Emily, to her credit, appeared stunned by the open adulation in that gaze. Long, narrow fingers danced reverently across his lap. JJ shifted, feeling a little like an interloper on this quiet, tender moment.

"Spence…" Emily murmured, leaning close and touching the gift she'd given him. "It's okay…"

"It's more than okay," he replied, voice stunned, flushing red. He didn't lift his head, eyes locked on his lap. " _More_ than okay."

And Emily smiled, glancing up and meeting JJ's gaze. Her mouth moved, Spencer's head snapping up to stare at JJ and he grinned sheepishly.

"What's going on in here?" Morgan said, bounding in with his usual bravado and grinning down at his two co-workers sitting at their desks. "You too are looking guilty."

"It's nothing," Emily said quickly.

"It's _wonderful_ ," Spence breathed, and lifted the scarf to his chest. "A perfect replica of the Fourth Doctor's iconic scarf, _perfect_."

"Spence is in love," JJ said with a chuckle, and turned to slip back to her office. "I expect a happy announcement by the end of the week."

"What, like baby mittens?" Morgan asked. JJ took a beat to follow that.

"Ew!" she yelped. The image was horrifyingly difficult to banish from her mind. "Morgan, why?"

Morgan just looked smug and then, with a glance back down into the bullpen, soft. "Look at that smile," he said, and strode away. JJ did.

"I told you, it was on sale," Emily was saying, looking a little awed by his gratitude for the gift. With a flurry of movement, Spence was up and hugging her tight, scarf pressed between them.

"I love it," he replied, and JJ left them to it.


	101. March 9th: Obedience

**March 9** **th** **: Obedience**

 **.**

 _March 9th:_ _ **Hired**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Today your character hires a new henchman! They seem... "nice."_

 **.**

"She's too good to be true," the men grumbled, but Doyle didn't get where he'd gotten by listening to pissant little whingers like Hove. But he hadn't gotten this far by being reckless either. So, he set a trap. A sweet little honey-trap that someone with ill-intentions towards his organization would stumble right into.

She passed. Flying colours.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't pleased.

"I'm not a nice boss," he purred into her sweaty throat that night, enjoying her wicked smile, her dark eyes.

"I'm not obedient," Lauren retorted sharply, and he took that as a challenge.


	102. March 10th: Buckled

**March 10** **th** **: Buckled**

 **.**

 _March 10th:_ _ **Irritable**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- A tiny thing. Simply minuscule. But it bothers character. It bothers them so badly and they would do anything to stop it._

 **.**

Emily dressed impeccably. Her hair was always perfectly neat, her shirts and trousers pressed, her coats fresh-scented even straight out of summer storage. Reid tweaked his crooked tie, brushed a spot from his sleeve, and didn't bother trying to fix his hair.

But there was one thing. One tiny, aggravating thing.

He itched to fix it. It would be supremely unprofessional. Outrageously rude. Incredibly callous. Would possibly see him written up.

Her belt-buckle. That silver belt-buckle… always exactly an inch and a half off-centre. He'd calculated it down to the decimal point.

One day, he'd fix it.

He _had_ to.


	103. March 11th: Miscarry

**March 11** **th** **: Miscarry**

 **.**

 _March 11th:_ _ **Guilt**_ _-_ _ **Super Saturday word count**_ _\- - pay an escalation cost for each add-on._

 ** _400 words_** _\- Character has done something. Something awful. Something chilling. Something that makes them feel very, very guilty. Something that is slowly driving them mad._

 ** _\+ 200 words_** _\- They constantly hear the sound of their crime ring in their ears. Thud. Thud. Thud._

 ** _\+ 200 words_** _\- Character needs to put up a good, cheerful front to remain above suspicion._

 ** _\+ 200 words_** _\- Your setting for today. Because madness is often found in the most ordinary of places._

 **.**

"I'll come back tonight," Matthew promised her as he dropped her at home. She nodded, woozy and sick and sore and wanting nothing more than to creep up the stairs of their too-big too-empty home and curl into her bed and cry. The door banged shut between them; she felt the thump of his stereo through the metal. And then he was gone and she walked up the long gravel drive, wearily aware of the hours she had to pretend to be okay.

"Hello, Emily," said her mother briskly as Emily slipped in through the doors, gut screaming at her to _lie down, stop moving_ and brain screaming along with her to _smile, you're fine, smile smile smile._ "I didn't expect you home today."

Emily fumbled. Tried to find the words to say "Hi, Mom. Yeah, bit of a headache. Going to sleep it off in my room." But the words were gone and instead she just swayed and stared and scrabbled her own tongue. She blinked and got stuck in a loop of blinking, her hand trying to twitch towards the cramp in her gut and only stalled by her knowing she _couldn't_.

Finally, she figured it out. "Hi," she said, and smiled and smiled and smiled until her mom's face turned down and she looked so miserably disappointed that Emily had no choice but to shrink back against the front door and steel herself against what was coming. "Hi, Mom. I'm. Hello."

"What have you taken?" Elizabeth said quietly, twitching her head. Emily heard feet scurrying away. The help, lurking, as always. Fuck them. "Why, Emily? Why do you do this? Drugs, really?"

"Sorry, Mama," Emily found herself saying, tears brimming and burning and begin to tumble loose. She shook her head, ashamed, and saw her mom's lips narrow. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and in her head the chant continued _I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ but it wasn't to Mom anymore, but the boy she'd let fuck her just to fit it. And another sorry to Matthew, who'd had to help her, and another sorry to the doctor who worked in the hidden little back-alley clinic with the twitchy eyes and the worried faces and another sorry to the—

"Get out of my sight," said Elizabeth, so Emily did. Tried to go to her room, but the stairs evaded her, so she slunk to the sunroom instead and huddled on the chaise. Staring out the window as the groggy turned to burning and the cramping turned to stabbing pain, she pushed it away and away and away, back to the box in the corner of her brain where she'd put that boy's name and his touch and everything he'd put in her.

She slept and dreamed of dying. Of a baby yowling furiously during a tempestuous storm. Of gentle hands drawing a blanket over her shoulders, and a warm presence at her side.

And woke in the night-time. The windows yawned in front of her, casting yellow light from the swollen moon onto the rows of books along the wall. She stared out into that night, shifting on the couch and feeling damp and sticky and over-hot. She tried to talk and couldn't, her throat tight, scratchy, dry. When she tried to lift her head, it thumped and ached; she sobbed waspily and dropped her head. And she was alone. Mama was gone. Mama hadn't been Mama since she was eight and still 'Little Em' and lovely and not angry or feckless or cruel at all. "Mom," she cried, because she was sick and scared.

A rustle next to her and a ruffled head peered up from his makeshift bed on the floor. "I snuck in," said Matthew with a glance at the folded doors. "Your mom has been in bed for ho—what's this?"

"Help," whimpered Emily. _Help_. In her head, she heard the boy. _Why not? Too good for us, American snob?_

Matt stood and fumbled across the too-big room for the light, the room blazing into sharp relief. Throwing it all into contrast. The neat cushions, the white and black marbled tiles, the cream couches, the red. The so much red.

"Help," said Emily again, and stared at the blood. It stared back, pooling and accusing and dripping slowly from the side of the couch to mar the tiles too.

"Holy fuck," cried Matthew, and ran from the room. Feet thumping on marble, thumping away, along with her head and the storm inside. "Help! Ambassador, help!"

Emily curled up. Mama wouldn't come when Emily was burning. Not for the disappointment she was.

Only for her daughter, and she hadn't been that for a while.

"Don't leave me," she whispered to Matthew, but he was already gone.

The hospital was cold and smelled of bleach and all the doctors hated her. The nurses were kinder, but they all knew what she'd done.

Matthew wasn't allowed to visit. She was alone.

Her door opened and she winced, expecting the doctor or a nurse or someone come to condemn her. 'Traumatic miscarriage' they were all calling it. Some mercy shown to a stupid, stupid girl like her. But it wasn't the doctors.

Emily braced as her mom stared at her and then, because she'd learned from years and years of brand new schools, always lash out first to stop them hurting you, she said: "If you've come to punish me, don't you think I've been punished enough? I'm suffering, Mom, what you've always wanted."

"I'm not here to scold," said her mom, swallowing hard. Her eyes were bright. Probably thinking how much she hated her daughter now she was _less_. "Is it really the fault of the daughter if she doesn't trust her mother enough to ask for help?"

"I don't understand," Emily said after a beat, her brain still fuzzy. Was she in trouble?

Was her mom… _crying_?

"I'm sorry," was all Elizabeth would say, and she stayed the whole night long and never left Emily's side.


	104. March 12th: Narcissist

**March 12** **th** **: Narcissist**

 **.**

 _March 12th:_ _ **Reject**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- "I reject your reality, and substitute my own."_

 **.**

The interview was going about as well as an interview with a narcissistic serial killer with delusions of grandiosity could go. Rossi was pretty sure that he'd never smacked a man quite this pretty in the mouth before, but he was fucking about to.

"My people are out there," the man said, handcuffs rattling. "They'll pick up where I left off."

"Doubt that," Rossi said, paging through a deliberately slim file. "No one's asked about you."

A smile. "There are hundreds of us," followed. "And we'll kill as we please."

Rossi laughed it off, but he wondered.

And he worried.


	105. March 13th: Prayer

**March 13** **th** **: Prayer**

 **.**

 _March 13th:_ _ **Un-right**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- Character is trying to do something that doesn't normally work in their world. They are absolutely convinced that it will work._

 **.**

Hotch, at some point over his life, had put aside his bible. He hadn't planned it, it had just… happened. A few too many horrible cases that felt almost obscene to pray after, and he'd never picked up the habit again.

Jack, following in his dad's lead, had done much the same. He didn't talk to God anymore, and Hotch had just assumed he didn't really talk to _anyone_. And after Scratch, God hadn't felt like much of a concept. After Haley.

"What are you doing, buddy?" he asked, finding his son kneeling by his window with a flickering candle. Ten now, growing so fast, Jack missed life before WITSEC. And he wasn't so easily fooled anymore.

"Asking Mom to look after them," Jack said, and Hotch kneeled to find the news report open on the brand new laptop they'd bought him. _FBI agent accused of murder._ "We're safe, but they're not …" Hotch swallowed something heavy and then realized Jack was flushing. "I know it's a stupid kid thing and not real but…"

Hotch stopped him with a touch on his arm. "If you're listening, Haley," he murmured, feeling silly and strong all at once, "anything is possible, right?"


	106. March 14th: Stoned

**March 14** **th** **: Stoned**

 **.**

 _March 14th:_ _ **Montage**_ _-_ _ **300 words**_ _\- Today your character is deep inside their own head, and, geez it's freaky in there. Show me the montage!_

 **.**

The injury is _just_ enough that Emily's off work for three months. It's also just enough that they won't let her out of the hospital if she doesn't have anyone home with her. That would be all well and good, but Reid's the one who opens his apartment to her until she's able to be alone again, and she's _fucked_ on the painkillers they give her.

Reid, to his credit, seems to be eighty percent amused by this.

But the dreams. The dreams aren't fun at all.

Tonight, she's lost in an edifice of herself, and it's not a pretty picture painted. The drugs are relentless at dragging her back in when she claws for wakefulness, and she keeps skittering awake to find herself pacing the hall with Reid a quiet, coaxing shadow at her back.

And there's a child in his study with a sad smile and a lonely heart. She takes his hand and shows him the girl and her dark dark hair that she never quite got the hang of braiding by herself. "You see, I wouldn't let the help do it," she explains, tugging him with her. "And mother was never home."

"Oh, Emily…" he replies.

There's a dance in his kitchen. It hurts to join in with her throbbing gut but she sways against him and shows him the music. "I hate this song," she mutters, but doesn't tell him why.

In the living room, there's a nightmare. A boy and his hands and his getting her on the smashed side of tipsy and telling her he'd give her everything in return for something simple. "But it wasn't simple," Emily breathes, against another warm and male shoulder. "And he gave me _nothing_ but _shit_."

"You should go to bed," Reid says.

Sensible. Instead she shows him that she can't go to bed, because in there is Doyle. "I could go back if asked," she decides, watching Doyle lay a lilac on her pillow. Purple stained with red. "I'd do my job, if they asked if. Into the lion's mouth."

She doesn't hear, but she thinks he says something almost like, "I wouldn't let them."

She does hear him say, "One last room," and follows him to his own.

"There's nothing here," she points out groggily, and falls. He catches her and carries her to the bed.

"There's me," he says, and she _knows_ she's hallucinating when lips brush her forehead. "And there's rest. And we're seriously talking to the doctor about your medication."

She has a sassy reply on her lips ready, but she's already asleep. Dreamless, this time, and when she wakes she's in his bed with no memory of the night before and he's huddled up asleep in a pile of laundry on the floor.

Weirdo.


	107. March 15th: Weasels

**March 15** **th** **: Weasels**

 **.**

 _March 15th:_ _ **Ides**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- They're after you. They're coming to kill you. You're sure of it! It's an evil plot to assassinate_ _Ceasar_ _your character!_

 **.**

Emily, as it turned out, did not do well on the 'good stuff'. Reid, warmly amused by this, had merely hummed and shown her to his guest bedroom, flushing a little as her eyes skimmed the books and papers shoved hastily around the rarely-used room. Victim of the injury that had taken her out of the field and still woozy on the medication, she was alternating being sober and cranky with being stoned and illogical.

 _At least_ , he thought as he startled awake to find her leaning over his bed that night, _she's not in pain._

"They're coming to get me," she whined, eyes dark.

"Who?" he asked groggily, and made a mental note to ask about reducing the dose. She leaned closer. When he touched her arm, she was clammy. He _worried_. This was why he'd made her stay.

"The weasels," she whispered, casting a scathing look at the walls. "In the walls. The evil weasels. They're planning to _get_ me. They know that I know…"

Oh.

He worried more. "I'm not sure what you want me to _do_ ," he admitted eventually.

She blinked. "Can I sleep in here?" she asked, slipping under the blankets without waiting for permission. "Just for tonight? You can keep an eye out." Before he could answer, she was already asleep.

 _How is Emily?_ JJ texted in the morning, and he watched her sleep for a moment more and rather thought that there weren't words to describe her adequately.


	108. March 16th: Nice

**March 16** **th** **: Nice**

 **.**

 _March 16th:_ _ **Sunshine**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- Everything is just. So. GREAT! Don't you agree?!_

 **.**

"How's Prentiss?" Hotch asked briskly when he found himself sharing an elevator with an exhausted looking genius sucking down a coffee like it was his only lifeline. "Is she healing well?"

Reid turned a wide-eyed, panicked kind of stare onto him, his mouth opening and closing several times as though he was trying to decide where the line between boss and confident lay. Hotch, feeling a little unsettled by that hundred-yard stare, tried to look soothing. He may have failed. Reid whimpered a little.

The elevator hummed to a stop, and Reid smiled manically, whispered, "She's fine, we're fine, everything's fine," and crept out of the elevator. Hotch watched him go, catching a muttered word that sounded almost like _weasels._ He also watched him walk into the door.

"I think," he said to Rossi after, having found Reid asleep in the conference room with his arms protectively hugging a box of files, "that perhaps we should take turns looking after Prentiss."

Rossi looked up, surprised. "Why's that?" he asked. "Kid struggling?"

Hotch looked down at Reid, now awake and staring blankly at his switched off computer screen.

"Oh, he's fine," Hotch said glibly. "I just think it would be nice."


	109. March 17th: Madness

**March 17** **th** **: Madness**

 **.**

 _March 17th:_ _ **Madlad**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Your lads (or lasses) have run simply mad! Such crazy and out of control antics may well spell the end of life as we know it!_

 **.**

Reid looked hopeful and miserable all at once. "But it's dinner," he said sadly. Emily leaned on the counter and stared at him and his bunny patterned pyjamas. Her own attire was considerably… less. Lucky him. "We can't have breakfast for dinner."

Emily stared at him, and then slowly reached into the box of Lucky Charms and grabbed a handful, lifting them with equal slowness to her mouth. Into the mouth they went. She chewed leisurely. Swallowed. Smiled at his rapt attention and said, "I just did."

"Absolute madness," whispered Reid, his eyes huge, and then reached for the box.


	110. March 18th: Schizophrenia

**March 18** **th** **: Schizophrenia**

 **.**

 _March 18th:_ _ **Invasive**_ _-_ _ **Super Saturday word count**_ _\- - pay an escalation cost for each add-on._

 ** _400 words_** _\- Slithering, seeping, into your soul. Crawling, creeping, out of control. Tricky thoughts seep into your brain, but it's okay, you're already insane._

 ** _\+ 200 words_** _\- Go on, revel in your madness_

 ** _\+ 200 words_** _\- But, oopsies! It's a bit infectious today!_

 ** _\+ 200 words_** _\- About halfway through your story something perfectly normal happens and it sets your character off._

 **.**

Emily had always thought that the small days didn't really matter much to anyone. That they only ever focused on the big days: the weddings and the funerals and the firsts and the lasts. And sure, she remembered all the bigs. Their first date. Their first kiss. He remembered her false funeral, vividly. She remembered her last day of being dead, excruciatingly.

But it didn't start off with a big day. It didn't start off with their wedding, when he was twenty-eight and her almost ten years his senior. It didn't start with a catastrophic, cataclysmic occurrence. It started with a small day.

It started with him not being able to sleep. Always an insomniac, they shrugged it off. He dealt with his exhaustion, she supported him through it. The pacing he hid from her. The thoughts he hid too.

It continued with a slip. Conversations slowing. She'd talk; he'd stare at her blankly for a moment before responding. The man with the lightning-fast wit, three seconds behind her mediocrity.

And now the small days were all they had.

"I'm turning into my mother," he whispered when they got the diagnosis. The day was cloudy and he sat in the window staring out. "I'm going to be just like her."

"No you're not," Emily said fiercely, furious with the sickness, furious with the doctors, furious, disgustingly, with _him_. "Never."

He looked at her blankly. "What makes me different from her?" he asked cruelly, and she wondered if it was him or his tangled brain talking. And realized that, from now on, that thought would always haunt her.

"You're not alone," she said. Firmly. Intensely. And she did _not_ bring her hand to her belly where their secret rested. Not yet. Maybe later. When he could take it. "I'm not fucking going anywhere, Spencer. We're fighting this together."

And they did.

When Oliver came, some eight months later, they dealt with that together as well. They both cried when he was born because they were happy, and Spencer cried when they took him home because he couldn't tell if this happiness was real or an illusion sent to taunt him. And then he cried some more because he realized this could be their child's future.

Emily refused to cry because even if it was, it didn't make any of them _less_.

Today was a small day. Oliver was two, a toddling, smiling thing. Spencer had long left the BAU. Emily had long won the fight against the doctor who'd taken advantage of the mistiness of Spencer's sharp mind to medicate him with lithium. After two months of a blank-faced, vacant husband who did little but sleep, that was enough. She'd rather the mania. She'd rather _him_. And she got him back.

"You're smarter than that," she'd told him sternly, as soon as he'd woken up enough to admit he'd let them dope him. "I don't know enough to help with your medication. You have to do that. For me, and for Olly."

"I'll do better," he'd promised, and after that he began to write her letters.

Today was a small day, and he'd written her a small letter.

 _My loveliest Emily,_

"That implies that there are other Emilys I'm competing with the title of loveliest for," she told him, perched on the side of the bath as he shaved with quick, nervous flicks of the straight razor. Foamy and damp, he smiled at her in the mirror and then reached down with a finger to smear shaving cream over their son's chin.

 _Last night the room became a prison. You closed the door. Why did you close the door? You never close the door. The door was the end of my world. Beyond that, I knew, depravity. Perhaps I was inside, outside, all sides. Outside there was a Spencer I didn't like, looming, dangerous. Don't go out there, I knew, and I watched you to make sure you wouldn't leave either. Don't touch it. Leave it alone. Like a dark hole in the wall, dangerous, and my thoughts tried to creep out there to see and instead snarled, tangled, became an amalgamation of edifices of my very self, don't you see?_

She put it down for a moment. The shaving cream was a smile now, splashed up her son's cheek. He giggled, chewing on the corner of a towel.

 _I'm mad. Utterly, outrageously mad, can you feel it? Can you see it?_

She looked at him again. Not really. Skinnier than he'd used to be, but he had another article being published in a journal the following week and he never missed a bedtime story.

 _Can't you feel it?_

"I love you," she reminded him, and stood to go and check to see if he was still taking the proper levels of his medication. "When's your next appointment?"

"Two weeks," floated after her. "We love you too." The _we_ frightened her, right until, "Don't we Oliver?" followed that.

"I'm going to call and ask if you can get in early." She checked the medication, frowned at it, checked the letter again.

 _The only thing I'm always sure of is waking to you next to me. Thank you. Even though I'm not who you married, that I'm this scratching, itching, festering thing—_

She put it down. Yesterday had been a big day, apparently, and she hadn't noticed. She'd do better next time. There was always time to do better.

"Silly," she sighed, when she turned to find him standing behind her, shaven and holding Oliver in their arms. "What do we say?"

A curling kind of exhausted smile. "I'm not less. I'm not… that."

"You're you. You're brilliant, clever, and only little odd sometimes. But you were like that _before_ , Spencer, so don't go getting all morose." Her life sometimes felt like a constant circle of chasing away depressive thoughts, slipping in through the walls like hunting weasels. "And if you're mad, I'm mad too."

She wouldn't have it any other way.


	111. March 19th: Duty-of-Care

**March 19** **th** **: Duty-of-Care**

 **.**

 _March 19th:_ _ **Rant**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- A dialogue only raging, rambling rant against someone or something._

 **.**

"I understand the risks—are you inferring that I would do _anything_ that would place my son at harm? I'm not asking for a retraction of protection. I understand that there are processes and procedures—I helped _write_ most of those procedures—but you have one of _my_ people incarcerated for a crime he didn't commit! I don't think how I came by that information is relevant. My duty of care for my team did not end when I stepped down from my position. I won't allow Dr. Reid to be harmed. I'll be contacting the Director directly. Thank you."


	112. March 20th: Llamas

**March 20** **th** **: Llamas**

 **.**

 _March 20th:_ _ **Sharing**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- Your character is fervently enthusiastic about something and must share this with everyone._

 **.**

Hotch tugged open the door to JJ's downstairs bathroom and frowned when he found four sheepish gazes staring back at him.

"Go Fish," said Rossi calmly, followed by, "Shut the door, Aaron, _or she'll hear you_."

Emily and Reid were taking advantage of the shift in attention to, not so subtly, cheat from one another, both of them cross-legged in the bathtub. Will, sprawled on the floor with the sleeping Henry in his lap, looked strained.

"This is very rude," Hotch scolded gently, stepping in and closing the door _very quietly_ nonetheless. "We should be sharing in Penelope's excitement, not hiding from it."

"So, why are you here then?" Rossi demanded, dealing him a deck of cards and passing them out. From outside the door, they heard the tramp of feet approaching and Morgan exclaiming, "Yes, you've _told_ me about the bunny handcuffs, _twice_."

"Um," said Hotch. "Team solidarity?"

That was a lie. An absolute bald-faced lie. But the bonus of having a face like _his_ , was that _no one could tell._ And he couldn't deal with another two hours of—

"JJ!" shrieked the drunken Garcia outside. "DID YOU WATCH THE NEW EPISODE OF _LLAMAS IN THE FBI_ LAST NIGHT?"


	113. March 21st: Black

**March 21** **st** **: Black**

 **.**

 ** _Slide_** _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Image prompt_

 **.**

They're arguing over the radio station. Reid wants to listen to his books-on-tape, claims driver's privilege. Rossi tells him _over my dead body_.

Reid's a clever little shit, the cleverest, but he scored the lowest on their defensive driving course. But they're driving home, they're relaxed and calm, and who thought they'd need it? A kink of his mouth, he smiles and laughs, and the tire spins out over a patch of black ice hidden by some swampy leaves.

The radio keeps playing as Rossi blinks awake, blood in his eyes and glass on his lap.

And Reid says nothing.


	114. March 22nd: Postage

**March 22** **nd** **: Postage**

 **.**

 _March 22nd:_ _ **Guideline**_ _-_ _ **300 words**_ _\- Someone attempts to repeal a natural law. Like gravity for example._

 **.**

She was babysitting little Will-Jay while JJ brought another Will-Jay into the world, and she still hadn't quite gotten over how it was possible to love _someone this much._ Sure, she loved Derek, in all his bodacious climbability. She'd love him all day all night, if given the chance. And more than that—down to her core, she adored him, beyond his hunktacular abs.

And Spence. God, the boy genius. You couldn't _not_ love him. And then there was Emily, their feisty little alley cat with paws of creamy gold; and Rossi who was just a grandpa teddy-bear, and JJ who was _love personified…_ and even Hotch. So much love, so many people, but she was so painfully aware that that love was attached to six people who might walk out of her life one day at the end of a psycho's mental break.

And there was Henry. Tiny, baby Henry, not so much a baby anymore and with a brother on the way.

"Where's mama?" Henry asked, staring worriedly at the door. "She's late for dinner."

"She's off getting you a new brother," Garcia said. "It's lots of work for her and your daddy!"

Henry looked bemused. "What?" he asked. "Mama did all the work. What did Daddy do to help?"

Oh boy.

"Yeah, Garcia," said Reid from the doorway, audibly smirking. "How _did_ Daddy help?"

"He," began Garcia, and wondered if she could pawn this off to Reid and his magical ability to create scientific diagrams from thin air. "Uh. Paid postage."

" _Paid postage_ ," breathed Reid, and vanished from the room to giggle.

"Urgh," Henry said after thinking about it for a while. "That sounds lame. When I'm a Daddy, I'm gonna do _all_ the work. I don't need a Mama to help."

Yep. Helplessly loved this kid.


	115. March 23rd: Limbo

**March 23** **rd** **: Limbo**

 **.**

 _March 23rd:_ _ **Change**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- One day character walks outside to find this. Nothing is familiar. This isn't where character lives. No one is the same..._

 **.**

The door hung at a crooked angle. He touched his fingers to it. A rough wind blew sand against the walled windows, bearing endlessly against this strange room Reid had woken up in. Inevitably, one day, he knew the sand would win and this desert room would be overtaken. He opened the door, dizzy, confused, and contemplated stepping outside. But there was something out there.

Someone he couldn't come back from. He let the door close. And he stepped away.

 _(Dr. Reid? Are you with us? There's been an accident. We're here to help.)_

 _(Come on, kid. Don't do this.)_


	116. March 24th: Please

**March 24** **th** **: Please**

 **.**

 _March 24th:_ _ **Shop**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- The local item shop has run out of an item character desperately needs! Write an angry letter to the management._

 **.**

 _Dear Mister_

 _I go to your shop. We buy candy. I really like the blue snakes and the red. But there was non wen we went. I really want some and Mom is sad that there was non becas she is going to see uncle Spenser soon and he likes the same stuff I do and we share them together and now we don't have any to share_

 _I would like to give Mom some candy to give my Uncle Please. I'm not allowed to go. Can you get some in or I'll be mad_

 _Thank you from Henry L!_


	117. March 25th: Never

**March 25** **th** **: Never**

 **.**

 _March 25th:_ _ **Scream**_ _-_ _ **Super Saturday word count**_ _\- - pay an escalation cost for each add-on._

 ** _400 words_** _\- To bed, to sleep, perchance to dream, perchance to scream._

 ** _\+ 200 words_** _\- You try to run, but something's wrong. Or maybe it wasn't right all along._

 ** _\+ 200 words_** _\- The chittering from the shadows grows louder, the fingers reach, they claw, you flounder._

 ** _\+ 200 words_** _\- A glow of light, at last! A brief respite? You gasp..._

 **.**

The armchair she was sprawled in was hard-backed and stiff. It was uncomfortable. It was agonisingly uncomfortable. Painful enough that she was fucking _sure_ it was designed to be that way; that a human factors researcher in ergonomics had walked into this room and gone, "Ahh yes, for maximum efficiency, the patient's bed should be there—right where the lights cast such a terrible pallor down on the inhabitant—the machines should be right there, where they'll whistle and hum by a visitor's ear to remind them of the stakes, and the chair should be appalling and orange and discourage long visitation."

A room of nightmares; with two men dressed in uniform standing guard outside the door, a bustle of nervous nurses skittering in and out between them, and Spencer Reid curled on his side in the bed with his head knocked stupid.

The accident wasn't anything that could have been avoided, Emily knew. Black ice, a slick road… no, that wasn't the reason she was huddled in this silent room with her phone charged next to her and her firearm at her side.

It was the message they'd received after, pinned neatly under Emily's windshield wiper as she'd bolted out of the Bureau ready to break every land speed limit in getting to the ICU where two of her people were floundering. The message that read: _Two down. You're next._

Some sick fuck. Every expert they'd consulted said the car hadn't been tampered with, there was no way anyone could have predicted the route Rossi and Reid would have taken, predicted the _weather_ …

But still, they were in danger.

Rossi snored from his own bed across the room. He took rest where he could get it, spending his waking hours trying to soothe all their scattered nerves. Reid hadn't woken up yet. They said he would—it was a medically induced coma, just for the next day or so, but…

She worried.

"Go to sleep," rumbled a deep voice from the darkness. Emily twitched, looking up at the shadowed figure of Hotch leaning against the wall. They weren't taking chances. "Or go home. You're no good to us exhausted, Prentiss. Your cognitive functions will be impaired."

She nodded and leaned her head down on the downright uncomfortable chair. Closed her eyes for a heartbeat. And when she opened them, she was absolutely alone.

Everyone was gone. She stared. Blinked. Rubbed her eyes and stood, touching her fingers against the butt of her gun warily. Reid's bed was neatly made; Rossi's was…

Not empty. She stepped back, stumbling over the chair and opening her mouth to scream and managing to choke it back into a gasp. A shape lay covered on her friend's bed, the blue-white sheets drawn over it like a child's game of peek-a-boo. She stared at that shrouded form. Then she walked slowly, so slowly, around Reid's empty bed and tugged the sheet back. And she stared at Dave.

He stared back without seeing and wouldn't see again.

"Hotch?" she asked, and her voice didn't tremble. Not an inch. No quarter given. "Reid?"

She turned again and the room was dimmer. Colder.

A shadow flickered by the doorway, inching fingers creeping around. She watched them, her weapon in her hand, watched them creep and skitter and crawl and scratch their way into the room, a low, throbbing growl beginning. Inhumane and assailing; it woke up some part of her brain that was primal and still ready to listen out for tigers in the night. And the door began to wind open, slowly, slowly, slowly…

She stepped back. "Hotch?" she called, and watched as a black shoulder took the place of that hand, the profile of a face oozing around the crack of the door. "R—Reid?"

She stammered. Swallowed a whine. Aimed her gun.

"Fuck off," she whispered, stepping back again and falling onto the cold, hard shape of Dave's body behind her. She squeaked, putting her hand back to stop herself and gasping again as it pressed against skin rigid in death, the sheet slipping and Dave glaring accusingly up at her. _Let me rest, damnit Prentiss,_ that glare seemed to say. _You women are so demanding. Man can't even die—_

A sob escaped, tearing on its way out, and she tried to pull away from the bed and almost dropped her weapon. Thick, cloying fear broke her. She slipped down.

A hand grabbed her. Sharp and hungry and made of nightmares, it bit into her bicep and she spun without screaming and fired without compunction into the monster's heart.

"Oh," said Spencer, and looked down at the red hole seeping slowly into his hospital issued pyjamas. He touched the wound, looking confused and a little heartbroken. Blood on his fingers. "But Em, why?"

And he fell.

She screamed in her nightmare and she woke with a gasp with a hand on her mouth and dark eyes looming close. Shaking and shuddering and with bile in her throat. Fighting that hand, she twisted about until she could stare at Spencer's quiet face, peaceful and real and _alive_. From across the room, Dave snored again.

"Shh," Hotch soothed, crouching with twin pops of his knees. "Nightmare, Emily. It was a nightmare. You were asleep. We're okay. We're all okay."

She waited until her heart was slowing to a more humane beat and asked, "How do you know I dreamed the team was in danger?"

He looked at her, his mouth thin. "What do you think Scratch made me see?" he replied gently. "I know his game. And I know what we fear the most."

It wasn't professional and he was on duty, even if she technically wasn't, but she grabbed his hand and clung on close. He returned the pressure, and it was… comforting. She'd never admit it though.

"I dreamed I killed him," she whispered, and looked at Spencer again.

"Never," Hotch promised, and let go and stood. Looked down at his sleeping team, profiled against the hallway glow. " _Never_."

He sounded so sure, she had no choice but to believe him.


	118. March 26th: Obituary

**March 26** **th** **: Obituary**

 **.**

 _March 26th:_ _ **Didn't**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Oh, no they didn't!_

 **.**

"You're cute when you're mad," Reid slurs to Prentiss, and Rossi waits for the world to end. Completely unaware that every person in the room is already mentally preparing his obituary— _died a dumb shit after spending his life as the smartest shit in the room_ —Reid continues smiling drunkenly with his head cocked backwards at an awkward angle.

Almost unconsciously, Prentiss's hand drifts across her hip where her gun usually rests, and Hotch jerks out of his chair as though to mediate.

But then she breathes again.

"You'll regret that when you're sober," she says sweetly, and saunters away.


	119. March 27th: Non-Committal

**March 27** **th** **: Non-Committal**

 **.**

 _March 27th:_ _ **Therapy**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- When you're this crazy sometimes you just need to talk it out. What could go wrong?!_

 **.**

Lauren bit at her lip and then nipped at her nails and then stopped doing both those things because they weren't at all what was expected of her. And she couldn't _believe_ she'd ended up here, of all places, but Ian had been 'concerned' and he seemed to believe she'd be able to keep their darker selves outside of this pale blue room.

The therapist—and Clyde would have a fucking _field_ day with this, Ian bloody Doyle getting her to a shrink when the FBI and Interpol combined hadn't managed it—smiled blandly at her.

"How are you feeling, Lauren?" he asked, and she twitched because for a second she could have sworn he'd said _Emily_.

"Tired," she said, looking out the window. "Stressed. I don't need to be here, you know."

"I'm sure you don't." A non-committal answer. She wanted to make him eat his clipboard. See how much he liked her throwing him _and_ his careful words across the fucking piss blue room. "And why is that?"

"Because I've got more degrees in your field than you do," she muttered, and he looked at her.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing," she lied, and went back to being false. "I'm fine."


	120. March 28th: Ring

**March 28** **th** **: Ring**

 **.**

 _March 28th:_ _ **Book**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Hey, this book looks great! I'mma read it. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn._

 **.**

The room was dark. A light flickered, illuminating a ghastly face. It loomed close, eyes wide and white. And it spoke: _"Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul!"_

The two boys in the beds gasped and hugged each other, twin shrieks escaping their lips at the inhuman words. The door opened, flooding the room with light, and Spencer jerked up from the floor and grinned sheepishly at Emily. Jack and Henry looked as well.

"What are you doing?" Aaron asked, frowning. "Even on sleepover nights, the boys should be asleep by now."

"Reading Lord of the Rings," Spencer admitted guiltily, and hid the flashlight behind his back. "Uh, enthusiastically."

Aaron tilted his head, smiled, and then stepped into the room and carefully smoothed his pyjamas down before seating himself on the floor. "Very well," he said, leaning his chin on his hand. "Carry on."

The light flickered off again.

 _"_ _Ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul…"_


	121. March 29th: Smug

**March 29** **th** **: Smug**

 **.**

 _March 29th:_ _ **QQ**_ _-_ _ **100 words**_ _\- Your hero makes someone Rage Quit._

 **.**

Rossi twitched a finger and Reid hit the floor again. They all winced, watching his head roll sadly from his body.

"That's seventeen," Rossi said smugly. Emily watched a nerve begin to twitch under Reid's eye, and bit at her lip. Maybe one of them should step in… "Go for a round twenty, kid genius?"

"It's _muscle memory_ ," hissed Reid through gritted teeth. "I _will_ win eventually."

But three minutes later, _bloop bloop bleeeeep_ said the game, and Reid was thrown out of a window. They all looked at Rossi. Reid breathed in.

"Eighteen," Rossi said, and Reid walked out.


	122. March 30th: Vulnerability

**March 30** **th** **: Vulnerability**

 **.**

 _March 30th:_ _ **Drama**_ _-_ _ **200 words**_ _\- Ugh! This is the absolute worst thing possible to ever happen. EVER!_

 **.**

This was, without a doubt, the worst thing that could have happened. A single tear escaped his stoic control and tracked a sticky line down his face. Around him, the team were silent and stunned. Appalled, no doubt, by this disgraceful show of unprofessional emotion. A single huff slipped from his lips, and then he raised his head and squared his shoulders.

"I hope this doesn't change how you see me," he said bravely. Dave's mouth quivered a little. Reid looked concerned. Prentiss was smiling. He made a mental note to order her a psych eval. "I'm still the same man. My commitment to you guys has not changed. Can you possibly see past this?"

Morgan made a low noise, like his heart was breaking. Hotch winced. How terribly he had failed his team…

"Aaron," Dave said, and stepped forward with his trembling hands held out and his face confused. "It's okay. We're okay. We can move past this. I don't think it's the first time, or the last, that a man has come to work without a tie."

Hotch looked down sadly at his bare shirtfront.

"How dreadfully ordinary I am without it," he whispered to himself.

 _How vulnerable._


	123. March 31st: MIGHTY

**March 31** **st** **: MIGHTY**

 **.**

 _March 31st:_ _ **Self-proclaimed**_ _-_ _ **300 words**_ _\- The delusions have fully set in now. Character is absolutely, without a doubt, the all-powerful... god of the universe!_

 **.**

They would _tremble_ below his mighty rage! With a single blow of his great hand, he would SMITE the wicked and the righteous indiscriminately! There was no escaping his wrath—born to a world of evil GLORY, he would cleanse the scorched earth of everything that sought to mar its beauty. And he would rise. From the ashes.

The great.

The wondrous.

The all-mighty god of EVERYTHING EVER IN EXISTANCE—

"Does that mean you're god of yourself?" asked Spencer curiously, picking up Rossi's character sheet and skimming it quickly. "Also, I think you might need to put some more points into intelligence, perhaps. Then maybe all your spells would stop failing…"

"This is lovely play-acting, Dave, but the evil wizard is still advancing on us," Hotch said with his customary frown. Served him right for playing a _bard_. Hotch the bard. Hotch the sing-songy bard. _Why?_ "Please do something before he turns Reid into a newt. Again."

"I'm god of everything including myself and also you, nubile monk!" Rossi bellowed, standing up and casting the table into his MIGHTY SHADOW. "And I…. _seduce the evil wizard_."

There. That would show them that his plan of dumping every point into charisma was a GREAT AND MIGHTY ONE. Silence met this proclamation.

"What?" asked Spencer.

" _Why_?" Hotch groaned.

"Well, you are naked," Garcia mused.

"Because he didn't put enough points into strength to _wear_ armour," Reid whined. Like he could talk. World's most neurotic monk.

Garcia looked at Rossi. "Are you sure?" she asked.

Rossi leaned close. " _I seduce the evil wizard_ ," he whispered intently, and she rolled the die.


End file.
